


i love it when we play 1950

by Moonlightkitten



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: #HowManyGirlsCanBillKiss2019, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Bill is smooth with the ladies, Coming of Age, F/F, Fame, High School Drama, Love Triangles, Music, New Year's Kiss, Team TARDIS, Yaz is oblivious, be gay do crimes, gratuitous depictions of beautiful old cars, hopeless lesbians pining for each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-09-14 19:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16918887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlightkitten/pseuds/Moonlightkitten
Summary: It turns out that it's far more difficult to form a band than seventeen-year-old Yaz Khan expected. And with her best friend playing drums, his granddad on keyboard, and mysterious new girl Jane Smith (who's possibly a celebrity that Yaz is possibly in love with) desperately trying to fill any role she can, the newly dubbedBraddersbangerzis going to get a lot more than they bargained for.





	1. a car crash and a didgeridoo

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly inspired by the video of Bradders, Mandip, Tosin, and Jodie singing in the back of that car.

_CHRISTMAS TRAGEDY: CAR ACCIDENT KILLS DOCTOR WHO SINGER, SERIOUSLY INJURES GUITARIST_

_Dec 27, 2016--_ Last year, the world was awed by the mysterious and aloof Doctor of the two-woman band _Doctor Who_ , whose so-called ‘otherworldly’ guitar playing drew audiences of twenty thousand or more to their concerts. Idris, her girlfriend and _Doctor Who’s_  lead singer, was named Britain’s sweetheart and appeared on the cover of Vogue. However, it seems like the two sixteen-year-olds’ rise to fame has come to an abrupt and devastating end: on Christmas morning, their tour bus exploded due to what appears to have been a problem with the gas tank.

Fans were devastated to learn that Idris, who had been sitting directly above the engine, was killed instantly. Susan F., a devoted _Whovian_ who spoke with us, lamented through tears that Idris would “live on in the hearts and minds of thousands of fans.” Meanwhile, the Doctor’s condition is still highly unstable. “It’s touch and go,” commented one source close to the guitarist. “They don’t know if she’ll make it, and even if she does, she might never be the same person.”

Millions of people around the world have sent their thoughts and prayers to the Doctor. For now, all we can do is wait and hope.

 

*************

For the record, this was all Ryan’s idea, _not_ hers. There were easier ways to win scholarship money than to form your own band comprised of half-hearted musicians with no formal training. But dammit if Ryan wasn’t itching for that full ride to Stanford University in America, and if Yaz could do anything to help him achieve this lifelong dream of his, she would.

 

_That’s what friends are for, right?_

 

She had told him this at least fifteen times, crouched over the tiny space heater in his black hole of a basement. Ordinarily, it went without saying, but he had pulled the dead mother card earlier and was now feeling guilty about it. Yaz assured him that she would have joined his band anyway. She liked to think that she was a good friend.

 

Besides, she was the best damn singer in a fifty kilometer radius.

 

Ryan’s basement was sort of picturesque, if you were half-blind and had consumed at least one alcoholic beverage. Still, the sheet music strewn everywhere had sort of an artistic effect, though that neon green couch stuck out like a sore thumb. Yaz had heard that unspeakable acts were committed on that sofa by a certain Jack Harkness.

 

Whatever. They needed a practice space for their sort-of band, and this was better than renting out one of those posh university rooms for a disgustingly steep price.

 

Drum set, check. Colorblind 90’s grunge band sofa, check. A kick-ass objectively attractive lead singer, check. They were well on their way to a proper musical group, she thought with a trace of excitement. This could actually be fun. Proper fun, the kind they hadn’t had since Ryan first discovered his nan’s stash of whiskey when they were thirteen.

 

“We should audition a guitarist,” she commented, feet in Ryan’s lap as she scribbled a note on measure 21 of Leonard Cohen’s _Hallelujah._ She shifted uncomfortably. “I hate this couch. Too damn lumpy.”

 

Ryan seemed to find this funny.

 

“Lumpy,” he repeated, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. She thwacked him over the head with the embroidered pillow she had gotten him for his fifteenth birthday. It read _bring me coffee or fuck off._ Summed up her outlook on life rather well.

 

“Guitarist, you moron,” she said again with the trace of a smile. “We can put up posters in the hallways.”

 

 _“Hallways?_ We’re better off branching out, maybe some coffee shops. You know nobody at Gallifrey can carry a tune.”

 

Gallifrey was their high school. Ryan was right, it had the singularly lowest concentration of talented people that Yaz had ever seen. So-called ‘talent shows’ at Gallifrey were probably responsible for eighty percent of Sheffield’s suicide rate.

 

Oh, there she was again with the morbid sense of humor. It was why everybody thought she should be a police officer. She studied the poster hanging above her friend’s drum set.

 

“You know, somebody found the Doctor when she was in high school. Maybe--”

 

Ryan cut her off. “Maybe what, you two could shag?”

 

“No!” she screeched too suddenly, face flaming. “I just mean we could find a breakout star too-- worth a shot, you know.”

 

He pretended to consider her words, before facing her with an shit-eating grin. “I bet if you try hard enough, you could track her down--”

 

“No, Ryan.”

 

“--And you could be friends and then--”

 

“She’s dead.”

 

“--Have her babies.”

Frowning, Yasmin sat up. “Well, that escalated quickly.”

 

Ryan shrugged. “You know it’s true.”

 

It really sort of was. When _Doctor Who_ had come onto the music scene a few years back, Yaz had developed a raging crush on the guitarist. _Raging_ . Like, her whole bedroom was covered with posters of the Doctor; she owned at least twelve Doctor Who t-shirts; she dyed her hair red to match the guitarist’s; she lathered on this hideous shade of purple lip gloss daily because the Doctor was rumored to have worn it once. It was exciting: a beautiful, witty, stunningly talented girl _exactly Yaz’s age_ was making history. This lasted for an entire year, and then the accident had come and nobody had heard a word from the guitarist since. Not a song, not an interview. Not a single note. Rumor had it that the she was in a coma, that she had married the long-lost princess of Spain and run away. That she was dead.  

 

But Yaz, for her part, had never entirely gotten over her crush. There wasn’t any point in it now, not really, now that her silly fantasy of seeing the Doctor perform was never going to be fulfilled. What was the point in daydreaming about marrying a superstar when said superstar was probably four meters under the ground? Still, though, she allowed herself to hope sometimes. No harm in that.

 

“I’m gonna make posters,” she announced, standing suddenly and scouring the room for a pencil. Surely there were art supplies in this hoarder’s den.

 

Ryan laughed. “Fine, make your loser drawings. I’m using Instagram to get the word out.”

***********

Only three people showed up to the audition on Friday. It was annoying; they could schedule another one, but Ms. Oswald had let them use her classroom after school today and _only_ today. She was adamant about that: today was a special exception; she had some kind of meeting with the custodian. Something about otters.

 

Whatever, teachers’ lives sucked.

 

Yaz had tried to make an attempt at professionalism, with her pulled-back hair and suit coat. She needn’t have bothered. Two of the auditionees were clearly burnouts, and the other one, a girl, had probably the worst taste in fashion in the known universe. Yaz studied her closely, wondering why she looked so familiar. There was something about the girl’s face, which was partially obscured by thick blonde bangs, that screamed recognition. But it was difficult to place. They had probably had class together before. Maths, maybe? She wasn’t sure.

 

The first druggie’s grating rendition of Clair de Lune would probably take years to unhear, and the second one simply played a scale.

 

“F major,” he had announced proudly.

 

_Whatever, dude._

 

Yaz turned expectantly to the girl, the familiar-but-somehow-foreign blonde girl who had been perched on a desk, listening intently.

 

“I’m Jane,” she offered easily, sliding down to the ground. “Lemme grab my instrument.”

 

Ah, she had her own guitar. A professional. Ryan shot Yaz a hopeful glance.

 

It turned out that Jane did not in fact have her own guitar. Instead, she lugged an enormous brown pipe into the room, hands shaking slightly. Yaz coughed.

 

“It’s a didgeridoo,” said Jane, as if either of them was supposed to understand what that meant. And then she pressed her lips to the mouth of the instrument and made a truly awful noise.

Yaz had to yell over the deafening drone.

 

“EXCUSE ME! WHAT. THE. _HELL_?”

  



	2. seven auditions later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some quality decisions are made.

After the unquestionable failure of the first round of auditions, Yasmin had indefinitely postponed finding a guitarist. It was better that they search for a pianist first. They could start off real acoustic, she figured-- some soft jazz, maybe. Lord knew Yaz had the voice for it. 

 

Yaz had the voice for  _ everything.  _ Papa liked to say that it was a miracle she hadn’t been scouted by some big shot agent yet. She didn’t care, really, had never yearned to be in the spotlight. Earn top marks, go to a good university, become a police officer: this was her dream. Low-hanging fruit, maybe. But a dream is still a dream, and, as her grandma used to say, any dream worth having is a dream worth fighting for. (It’s possible that Umbreen plagiarized that from a certain superhero movie. Never mind.) 

 

They had started “rehearsals” already, by which Ryan meant solo jam sessions in his basement with Yaz draped over that terrible sofa, chewing on licorice. It was supposed to improve your voice, and anyway, the chewing helped block out the constant pounding of Ryan’s drum set. Sometimes she doodled more posters. Sometimes Graham did. 

 

Ryan’s step-grandpa was the band’s number one fan. It was cute, if a little ridiculous. He brought them CDs for inspiration, coffee for concentration, and a never ending supply of pickle sandwiches. Already the basement was piled high with dirty dishes which both teenagers were too lazy to bring upstairs and wash. 

Two weeks flew by in this manner, and then it was their third keyboard audition day. Nobody had showed up for either of the previous two auditions, and both Yaz and Ryan had given up on looking nice by now. 

 

Auditions were from four to five. They lounged in the band room, playing an intense game of Egyptian rat slap, until 4:58, when the door flew open. 

 

“Hello?” Yaz called, pushing her cards aside and craning her neck. Whoever it was, they clearly didn’t value punctuality. Not a great trait for a band member, but they were a bit desperate. 

 

“I’m auditioning!” cried an uncannily familiar voice, and Yaz followed a pair of gangly legs up to a striped shirt up to the face of Jane the Didgeridoo Player. 

 

“Shit,” she heard Ryan whisper behind her. 

 

It appeared their band had a resident poser, somebody who thought she was talented but really,  _ really,  _ wasn’t. Yaz tried to break the news gently. 

 

“Uh,” she began, rising warily to her feet, “we’re actually looking for a pianist right now.” 

 

“Right,” replied a grinning Jane. “I’m here to audition. On keyboard.” 

 

Ryan made a face behind her. Well, she couldn’t see him, but she was almost one hundred percent sure that he was making a face. She sighed. 

 

“Jane, we’d love to have you in our band, but it’s going to be a, uh, big commitment. Lots of work. We want someone who’s seriously devoted to one instrument.” 

 

This did not seem to faze the other girl at all, who simply rocked on the balls of her feet, still grinning. “ _ I’m _ devoted,” she replied. “My friend Missy taught me how to play. I’m a real virtuoso.” 

 

Okay, to be fair, Yaz thought, this girl was pretty adorable. And who knew, maybe she really could play the piano. 

 

“Why not?” she agreed, turning to Ryan. “I mean, nobody else came, so…” 

 

Her friend just sort of grunted in obvious displeasure. He eyed Jane up and down once, and Yaz briefly wondered if he was experiencing a bit of deja vu too. Goddamn, she was sure that she knew this girl from somewhere. 

 

Her already low expectations altogether ceased to exist when Jane pulled a melodica out of her jacket pocket.  An honest-to-god  _ melodica,  _ one of those little keyboards that tripled as a horn and a worldwide instigator of spontaneous violence. 

 

Yaz mentally cursed every god that she could think of. She swallowed. Jane raised the “instrument” to her mouth. Ryan’s eye probably twitched. 

 

It was worse than she thought it would be. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she yelled over the so-called ‘music’, wincing. “You’re not what we’re looking for!” 

 

Jane was back the next week anyway with a set of bagpipes. 

 

******************

 

“So let’s review,” Yaz said, exasperated, as she paced around a music stand. “Stanford auditions are in seven months, and we have no guitarist, no pianist, no bassist, no backup singers, and  _ no program!”  _

 

Ryan crashed his cymbal emphatically, and she glared at him. “I’m serious, dude. How are we supposed to do this, exactly? Not even Craigslist worked, and Craigslist  _ always  _ works.” 

 

Sighing, her friend swiveled around on his stool, scanning the ceiling for answers. “I mean, we could always--” 

 

A crash. A door swinging open. Graham’s enthusiastic voice calling out “Cheese toasties for my hungry musicians!” 

 

Wait a minute. Yaz locked eyes with Ryan. 

 

It was a long shot. 

 

“Hey, your grandpa used to play the piano, didn’t he?” 

 

******************

It was only temporary, she assured Ryan. Lord knew it was embarrassing to have your own grandpa (step-grandpa, insisted Ryan) playing keyboard in your high school pseudo-grunge band. Graham, for his part, had been wildly enthusiastic about the whole idea. 

“I was a disco kid, believe it or not,” he reminded them until Yaz thought she would lose her mind. “Yep, you may not know it to look at me, but I was a real ABBA fan-- course, when Madonna came along, I loved her too…” 

Long story short, Graham’s type of music was a little, to put it kindly, outdated. They were aiming for a late nineties aesthetic (at least, Ryan was. Everybody seemed to have slightly different interpretations of the music style, which made for several interesting rehearsals), but it got sort of watered down with Graham’s generous use of the synthesizer options on the electric keyboard. 

 

But they had a keyboardist. They really and truly had a keyboardist. Now, if only they could track down a guitarist, the rest would work itself out. A bassist would have been good, but they could do without until they got their footing. 

 

Too bad that the auditions consistently turned into Physics study halls. Only Jane, who could not take a hint, showed up, each week with a new and incredibly strange instrument. Some of them, Yaz thought, like the silver accordion, must have cost her well over a hundred pounds. But how Jane was able to afford all this was neither here nor there. The point was, they needed a guitarist and they needed one  _ now.  _

 

It was Ryan who first drew the connection between Yaz’s favorite musician and her overwhelming sense of deja vu. 

 

“Looks like the Doctor, doesn’t she?” he said of Jane one night after school while they quizzed each other on Euler’s number. 

 

Yaz sighed. “You know, I’m over that dumb crush. You don’t have to keep bringing her up.” 

 

He was silent. Frowning, she peered at his face and knew suddenly that he was serious. Probably because his next words were, in fact, “I’m serious.” 

 

“Maybe so.” 

 

She pondered it for a minute, tried to reconcile the shaggy blonde-haired Jane with the redheaded, sexy, cooly vivacious Doctor. 

 

“I don’t really see it.” 

 

Ryan rolled his eyes. “You’re getting hung up on hair color. It’s in the face.” 

 

Then Yaz was the one rolling her eyes, because  _ she  _ was the only one who was supposed to have gazed lovingly at photos of the Doctor’s face for extended periods of time. 

 

“Jane is  _ not  _ the Doctor,” she muttered, kicking the arm of the green sofa for emphasis. Not to be misleading-- Yasmin had definitely entertained this fantasy many times: a secret, disguised Doctor attends Gallifrey, falls in love with plain old pedestrian Yaz, who discovers the true identity of her girlfriend. Drama ensues. They live happily ever after. Preferably with at least three cats. 

 

“I know that,” said Ryan, slightly miffed. “I’m not saying they’re the same person. Just that they look alike.” 

 

“I don’t see it,” repeated Yaz. She studied the Doctor’s gorgeous, flowing red hair in the poster, imagined a graceful, reserved, composed musical genius. And then there was talentless Jane, always bouncing off the walls, adorable in a kicked-puppy sort of way. Jane had a nasty purple scar running down the side of her throat. Same chin, though. Same jawline, nose, eyes. 

 

She saw it. She didn’t want to see it. 

 

But she saw it.  

 

********************

Yaz passed Jane in the hallway the next morning on the way to maths. 

“Can you read music?” she asked. It was a fair question, given the other girl’s truly awful auditions.

 

“Yes,” said Jane. 

 

Yaz bit her lip. Imagined that she was talking to the Doctor. “You’re our new composer. You can arrange and transcribe stuff. Six o’clock tonight, Ryan’s basement. Don’t be late.” 

 

For the first time, she wasn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm seeing how long I can hold off on the 'gaylist' and 'chickstape' jokes. They're coming.


	3. karaoke and car porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that Jane Smith is actually sort of talented and really bad at pick up lines, and the teenage angst train leaves the station. 
> 
> (Contrary to the chapter title, this does not contain anything remotely porn-like unless, like me, you're a slut for old cars.)

It turned out that Yaz had probably made one of the best decisions of her life. 

 

Sure, any time Jane Smith touched an instrument, a puppy died somewhere across the world. But  _ damn  _ could she write music. Yaz was actually terrified to play their first gig together as a band, for fear that someone might inquire who had written their songs and snatch Jane away from them to go compose for Beyoncé. 

 

This had, in fact, been the topic of a heated discussion between her and Ryan. 

 

“Bro,” he had whispered furtively, afraid that someone might overhear, “She’s  _ too  _ good for us, and she doesn’t even know it.”

 

They were crowded in a Gallifrey stairwell, the one in J hall. It had poor ventilation, so everybody smoked pot in the next hallway over; this one was relatively empty. Still, it never hurt to be too careful when you were trying to keep the next Leonard Cohen a secret. 

 

Tossing her backpack down, Yaz slumped against the wall. “Got a mint?” 

 

“Why, you planning on making out with someone?” 

 

Her laugh was a little too high pitched. “Just gimme a mint, jerk.”

 

While he dug through his backpack, Yaz juggled her cell phone from hand to hand. She should probably call Jane, have her meet them here. If they were going to be a band, they ought to at least eat lunch together. 

  
As if he had read her thoughts, Ryan cleared his throat. Passed her a stick of gum. “It’s all I have. Should we call Mozart? Do some team bonding?” 

 

“ _ Here?”  _

 

Stairwells weren’t exactly the best place for lunch, especially since at Gallifrey, they were infamous for the three M’s. (Marijuana, masturbation, makeouts.) Yaz briefly imagined making out with the Doctor, found that her little fantasy kept getting interrupted by annoying images of Jane. Right, then. 

 

“I’ll text her,” she conceded grudgingly. 

 

**Meet us in the stairwell in J hall.**

 

It was a good message. No fluff, straight to the point. Impeccable grammar. She was already familiar with Jane’s unreasonable affection for abbreviations, however, and it did not surprise her that the reply read 

 

**K, brt, etsygs**

 

She sighed, showed it to Ryan. “Can you translate?” 

 

WIth an increasingly frustrated expression, he studied it. “Uh, wow. I mean, I think  _ brt  _ means be right there. Not sure about the rest.” 

 

Yaz nodded. “She’s the best, though, right?” 

 

“The best,” he agreed. “Damn good.” 

 

“Too good.” 

 

***** 

After that, they began eating together more regularly, and Yaz found that she didn’t mind. It was fun, even-- Jane had the intellect of twelve Einsteins combined, and it was always interesting to listen to whatever random topic she had decided they should know about that day. Mostly, she talked about her lift, a ‘52 BelAir that she  _ swore  _ would be brilliant once she found a suitable carburetor. 

 

“Don’t make them anymore,” Jane had explained, nodding her head sagely. “Did I tell you yet that the TARDIS has suicide doors?” 

 

She had, in fact, told them before. In fact, she liked to bring it up at every possible opportunity. She had installed them herself, apparently. Yaz wasn’t sure how that was even possible. 

 

“It’s like a Delorean, but sexier,” continued Jane with a winning smile. “Hey, Yaz, let’s go for a ride sometime.” 

 

“What, no room in the back seat?” muttered Ryan, arms crossed. 

 

That was when Jane shrugged like an honest-to-god Humphrey Bogart and said cooly, “Maybe I wasn’t talking about that kind of ride.” 

 

Okay. Well. 

 

After a set of several minor but potent heart ruminations, Yaz realized that she was choking on her sandwich. 

 

“Sorry, I need to, uh, to use the oo, uh, the loo--- yeah, be, I’ll be back…” 

 

***********

The problem, Yaz decided later, was that the Doctor was unreasonably attractive, and she and Jane sort of looked alike, and this was the reason that her brain decided to malfunction occasionally around the composer. She was basically just living her fantasy vicariously through her celebrity crush lookalike. Hot  _ damn,  _ though _.  _ How could awkward, gangly, ridiculous Jane so seamlessly and suddenly turn into Casanova at random intervals? 

 

It was one of life’s many mysteries. 

************

There came a point, about one month into it, that Graham decided they should have a title. 

 

“Proper name for a proper band,” he insisted. 

 

To which Ryan had said, “ _ Proper name for a proper band  _ is a pretty meta band name. Let’s go with that.” 

 

“I  _ hate  _ meta,” announced Jane emphatically, and that was the end of that. 

 

After that, everything became a potential band name. 

 

“Chips, please,” Yaz asked the pretty student serving them in the caf. 

 

“Extra for you,” she replied with a wink. 

 

“Band name,” said Ryan.

 

“We should hang out sometime,” said the girl. “I’m Bill.” 

 

“ _ I’m Bill.  _ Perfect band name,” repeated Ryan. “Totally meta.” 

 

Yaz pulled out her sparkly blue pen, reached over and wrote her phone number on Bill’s wrist. “Why is everything meta with you now, Ryan?” 

 

“That’s such a meta thing to say,  _ Yaz.”  _

 

**********

“God, I hate guitarists,” she moaned, sinking onto Ryan’s couch after yet another failed audition. 

 

“Brilliant band name,” he commented idly. Twirled his drumstick around. “It’s really---” 

 

“Meta, I know.” 

 

He shrugged. “I was going to say iconic.” 

 

“Ironic, maybe.” 

 

“Bubonic.”

 

“PLAGUE?” called Jane’s voice through the basement door. “WHAT STRAIN? MAYBE WE CAN QUARANTINE IT! HANG ON, LEMME…”  

 

Yaz giggled. “You’ve set her off, mate, good luck getting anything done this practice.” 

 

“Band name.” 

 

“Will you  _ stop?”  _

 

***************************************

 

In the end, it was Graham who dubbed them Braddersbangerz, a name which made absolutely no sense but became their nom de plume by virtue of the fact that he had written it on the Stanford application as a joke and nobody remembered to change it. 

 

The process worked like this: there would be two rounds of rigorous auditions, after which, if they made it through, they would participate in a weeklong intensive training camp in America. Then, after another round of auditions, ten bands would then be chosen to perform at an enormous music festival in San Francisco-- during Pride, incidentally. One of those ten would be voted Rising Star. Every one of its members would receive full ride scholarships to Stanford. 

 

The competition was insane. Privately, Yaz doubted that they could even make it past the first audition. But then there was Jane. 

 

Really, they were discovering new things about her every day, the first that she actually was a decent singer. Of course, she was no Yaz, wasn’t Stanford caliber--- but her stage presence made up for what she lacked in vocals. 

 

Because goddamn, that girl belonged in the spotlight. 

 

It was three weeks before final semester exams, so the three teenagers had gone out for one last night of fun at Basil’s Karaoke Joint before the stress fully sunk in. It was a strange club, packed full of high school students trying to twerk to classic rock. The owner/bartender/occasional musician, Basil, was “morally against carding the youth,” as he put it, so it was  _ the  _ place for teenagers who wanted to get pissed without the bother of trying to steal their parents’ liquor.

 

It quickly became apparent that Jane had some kind of strange personal vendetta against Basil. 

 

“Oh, you’ve redecorated this place?” she muttered at him, eyebrow raised, as she sipped her Shirley Temple from across the counter. “I don’t like it, it’s rubbish.” 

 

“Speak for yourself,” whipped back the old man, who proved to be the resounding victor in the expressive eyebrows competition. “Your coat looks bought from a charity shop.” 

 

Jane wasn’t backing down. “So does your face-- doesn’t the Red Cross iron their merchandise? It’s pretty wrinkly.” 

 

Eyes darting between the two of them, Yaz coughed delicately. “Uh, Jane, why don’t we sing the next one? It’s a duet.” 

 

Had she tried, Yaz could have easily brought down the house, but tonight wasn’t about fame or money or beautiful signing. Tonight was about having fun, about being on stage with the cute composer from her pseudo-grunge band who she could possibly see herself being interested in at some point. Tonight was about being seventeen. 

In retrospect, Jane seemed to have a very different idea about what they were doing. 

 

“Lemme finish my drink first,” she yelled over the pounding of the speakers, which were emitting an ungodly noise, probably due to the fact that Donna freaking Noble was attempting to sing the Queen of the Night Aria. Then she knocked back her Shirley Temple, ordered another one and downed it too, hopped off the stool, and promptly ran right into Yaz, who coughed. 

 

“You know, you’re kinda pretty,” murmured Jane, pressed all up against her and showing no signs of moving any time soon. Yaz took a step back. 

 

“Exactly  _ what  _ was in that Shirley Temple?” 

 

Jane furrowed her brows. “Shirley Temple? I ordered a Bloody Mary.” 

 

Of course she had. 

 

This was how they ended up on the small, brightly lit stage, belting out an overly dramatic and extremely gay version of Rather Be. Yaz made it a point to sing as badly as she could, which was considerably better than anyone else who had performed that night.

 

But it turned out that alcohol and the spotlight made Jane into a shameless flirt, if a very drunk one. Yaz knew there was going to be trouble as soon as the other girl hip-checked her within the first few seconds of the song and then didn’t move away, so that their thighs were now pressed together. 

 

“We’re a thousand miles from comfort,” sang Yaz, attempting in vain to ignore Jane’s hand snaking its way to her shoulder. “We have traveled land and sea…” 

 

Then she made the mistake of dropping her left hand to her side, because Jane took it and, in one fluid motion, twirled Yaz around, swing-dance style, so that she was wrapped up in the microphone cord. Apparently it was now the composer’s self-directed mission to make this performance as difficult as humanly possible. 

 

“But as long as you are with me…”  She tugged unobtrusively at the cord around her waist, hoping that she didn’t seem too awkward. “There’s s no place I’d rather… uh, rather…” 

 

Jane was dancing across the stage. Honest to god dancing. 

 

“... be,” finished Yaz, noticing for the first time that the crowd was fixated on her band member. For god’s sake, Jane wasn’t even  _ singing.  _ She was just sashaying around, winking at the crowd, doing this thing with her hips that looked… it looked… 

 

Choreographed. 

 

Jane looked like a professional musician, Yaz realized suddenly. She looked like one, danced like one, flirted like one. And isn’t that why Yasmin Khan, die-hard  _ Doctor Who  _ fan, thought she was so intriguing, after all? She didn’t want to talk to Jane Smith about cars and theoretical physics because she wanted to talk to the Doctor about romance and sex and the guitar. Damn, Yaz was a terrible flirt and an even worse friend. 

 

Why had she expected anything to develop from this, anyway? Jane might not have been the Doctor, but she was an effortless composer, clearly musically gifted. Born to be a star. If she could actually find an instrument to play, she could be famous. And the whole flirting thing that she occasionally did with Yaz-- well, this proved that that was an act. Jane was a very good actress, apparently.

 

You couldn’t expect someone like that to half-fancy you back. 

 

The song ended and Jane turned to her. 

 

“I hate performing,” she whispered. "I think I'm going to be sick." 

 

And for a moment, Yaz felt a surge of happiness, the sort of thrill you would get if a celebrity deigned to compliment you. 

 

Then her green eyes flashed gold and the next thing Yaz knew, Jane was passed out cold on the floor. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering where Ryan was this whole time, he was winning two hundred pounds from Nardole over a heated game of poker in the back room.


	4. Bills, BelAir's, and Big Oofs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Braddersbangerz gets a guitarist, the TARDIS breaks down, and Jane accidentally finds out about Yaz's raging obsession with the Doctor.

Yaz discovered that you could learn a lot about a girl by holding back her hair as she puked. For instance, you might notice that she could not handle her liquor. Or that she ate a lot of fried egg sandwiches. Or that she looked unfairly attractive bent over. 

 

Yaz tried not to think too hard about that last one. 

 

“It’s unfair,” Jane was sobbing between hurls, “So unfair!” 

With a sigh, Yaz attempted to simultaneously plug her nose with one hand and hold back Jane’s hair with the other. Not that a cessation of olfactory input would have been much of an improvement anyway. Basil’s Karaoke Joint was notorious for having the dirtiest washrooms in town, at least. Possibly in the entire country. 

 

Jane kept sobbing. Yaz took the bait. 

 

“What’s so unfair?” 

 

“The polar bears!” With a sniffle, Jane emptied what little remained in her stomach. 

 

Yaz raised an eyebrow, though she knew her friend wouldn’t be able to see. 

 

“They’re dying!” bawled the composer, clutching at the sink for support. “Their icebergs are melting, and they’re all dying!” 

 

At that, she had to struggle not to laugh in disbelief. “Are you  _ serious _ ?” 

 

“‘Course I’m serious,” Jane wailed. “Think I’d  _ lie  _ to you about so-something like that?”

 

She couldn’t help it. She giggled. With an indignant glare, Jane wrenched her hair away and frowned. Yaz sighed the sigh of a long-suffering friend. 

 

“Look, Jane, it’s just… you pass out cold and then start throwing up, and the reason you’re upset is because of  _ polar bears?”  _

 

“They’re dying,” she whimpered. 

 

“Polar. Bears.” Yaz insisted, placing extra emphasis on the  _ bears  _ part. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Right, I, uh--- okay, fine. Why’d you faint, then, are you sick? Surely bears couldn’t have been responsible for that.”

 

Jane hiccoughed. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

 

Yeah, alright. Don’t tell your friends about a potentially dangerous medical condition that could possibly put your life at risk. Lovely modus operandi, very logical.

 

The problem with Jane was that Yaz could never tell what was an act. Was Jane the Slightly Vulnerable Environmentalist the true Jane? Or was it Jane the Flirty Performer? What about Jane the Digeridoo Player? 

It was all very confusing.

 

**************************************************

 

Christmas, in Yaz’s opinion, was the best time of the year. And, yes, it was probably weird to love a holiday that she didn’t even celebrate. But if Ramadan had given her three weeks’ vacation from school, she would have gladly elevated it to the top of the list. 

 

Of course, this year, Ryan had decided that there was no time to goof off. 

 

“You guys want that scholarship, or what?” he had demanded in response to Yaz’s complaint that he was a slave driver. 

 

Despite the fact that she didn’t even play an instrument, Jane agreed wholeheartedly with this sentiment, nagging them all to practice at all hours of the day and night. It got to the point where the technologically-challenged Yaz brought her cellphone into Gallifrey’s computer science club to see if they could silence Jane’s calls. The supposedly skilled group of nerds struggled for half an hour before Rory Williams suggested that they transfer away all the data from her Samsung, encrypt it in C++, and rewire her antenna from there. Everyone cheered enthusiastically and reached for her phone. 

Yaz had never left a room so quickly before. 

 

Then, eight days before Christmas, Grace’s friend’s boyfriend’s daughter was diagnosed with diabetes, and suddenly all the responsibilities of hosting the knitting group’s annual holiday party fell to the Sinclairs. 

Grace had informed them firmly that her guests would  _ not  _ be subjected to the music that had lately been pounding daily from their basement, so Yaz finally had a day off from practice. 

 

She had planned to spend the day doing nothing, but then the poster of the Doctor hanging above her bureau stared accusingly at her and wouldn’t stop. Honestly. 

 

Yaz rubbed some lotion onto her hands, figured that she should probably get outside more because her skin was looking rather pale. The Doctor continued to watch her from the poster, red hair curling around the neck of her guitar. 

 

_ I really need a girlfriend,  _ she thought. 

 

Sighing, she grabbed her phone and flopped back onto her mattress. The lotion smeared all over the surface of the screen and she wiped it off, frowning, on the duvet. Incidentally, the  bedspread itself was patterned with images of the Doctor’s iconic guitar,  _ Sexy,  _ in all its sapphire  glory. Damn, Yaz had a problem. 

Right, girlfriend. She scrolled through her contacts until she found  _ Highkey Hot But Super Chill Girl Who Serves Chips At School.  _ In retrospect, she probably should have elaborated on that, because she had already forgotten the girl’s name. 

Whatever, bullshitting things was sort of her forte. 

 

Highkey Hot But Super Chill Girl picked up on the first ring. “Hello? This is Bill.” 

 

Bill, right. Yaz added that to the notes app. 

 

“Hi, I’m Yasmin,” she responded, shifting onto her back. “From school?” 

 

“Oh, Yaz, right!” The smile practically radiated from Bill’s voice. “It’s so good to hear from you.” 

 

Fifteen minutes later, she had a date to this new movie about an American female supreme court justice who Yaz had probably heard about once or twice before. Clearly, Bill was the sort of lesbian who not only attended all the feminist protest marches, but organized them. It was all Yaz could do not to grin smugly to herself in her empty room. 

 

“See? I have a love life besides just obsessing over you,” she told the Doctor, whose printed face seemed to laugh at her. Yaz stuck her tongue out at the poster. 

 

*************************************

 

It quickly became apparent that this was not going to work out. Probably because halfway through the movie, Bill started sobbing and ran out of the theater, compelling Yaz to follow her, even though Ruth Bader Ginsburg was giving a really motivational speech which she didn’t want to miss. 

 

“Hey,” said Yaz, hesitantly resting a hand on her date’s shoulder. “What’s up?” 

 

Bill wasn’t a crier, Yaz could tell, because her tears had already stopped for the most part. “Sorry, it’s just that, I-- I had this girlfriend, Heather. She’s smart, and, like  _ beautiful,  _ and she wanted me to come live with her, ‘cause, you know, I’m in foster care, but I like Moira well enough, you know, so I said no, and now she’s ghosting me and…” 

 

Shaking, Bill splashed water on her face. “Why did I say no? I should’ve gone, Heather was amazing…” 

 

It occurred to Yaz that this was the second time in two weeks that she had had to deal with a friend’s emotional breakdown in a public restroom. Stifling a sigh of exasperation, she pulled herself up onto the bathroom counter. 

“Look, uh, why don’t you just tell her you changed your mind? People do that, you’re allowed to.” 

 

Bill shook her head. “She wouldn’t listen, she’s always avoiding me.” 

 

How was this happening? Was Yaz seriously giving advice to her date about how to get with  _ another girl?  _ Evidently, she was, because she suddenly found herself telling Bill to impress this Heather, perform some huge, sweeping gesture that she couldn’t help but notice. 

 

“Like, serenade her or something,” she suggested, awkwardly tapping her nails against the counter. Damn, she had cut them especially for tonight. Just in case. 

 

Shrugging, Bill hopped up next to her. “I can’t sing, though. All I do is play the guitar, but not very well. Maybe I could write her a poem or something? Okay, I’d probably suck at that. I mean, I guess--” 

 

“Hang on,” interjected Yaz suddenly, clutching at the faucet. “The guitar?” 

 

“Yeah, I play. My mate Basil taught me a few songs. Not much, it wouldn’t be very impressive.” 

 

“No, but…” Yaz turned to face her date properly, watching out of the corner of her eye as their reflections danced in the bathroom mirror. “Chords. You can at least play chords, right? Just to sustain the music, create a mood. Nothing fancy.” 

 

“Well, yeah, sure.” 

 

Oh, this was good. Finally, finally,  _ finally.  _

 

With a grin, Yaz pulled out her phone, tapped on the Voice Memo app. Bill stared at it, confused. She hit  _ play.  _

 

Even through the tinny Samsung speakers,  _ Braddersbangerz  _ sounded good. This was a clip from one of their practices last month, when they had been improvising on a theme that Jane had written. Graham’s glissandos echoed through the dimly lit room, creating a sort of ethereal effect, and Yaz listened to her own voice singing nonsense words to get a feel for the rhythm:  _ Avocado, swingset, Lin-Manuel Miranda.  _ Behind it all, the steady ba-bum of Ryan’s bass drum. Comforting. Provoking. Unique. 

 

Bill’s eyes were wide by the time the recording stopped. “Was that  _ you  _ singing? Cause damn, that was good.” 

 

Smiling, she nodded. “What would you have done? I mean, played?” 

“Hmmm,” replied Bill, concentrating on the discolored patch on the ceiling. “Would’a done a riff on that F major bit you guys put in, maybe.” 

 

“And?” 

 

“Transposed the piano motif, maybe in a lower key.” 

 

Yaz grinned. “Hey, you know what would really impress Heather?’ 

 

“What?” 

 

“Getting a full ride scholarship to Stanford.” 

 

**************************************************************

 

Now that they had a guest guitarist, Yaz felt, they were well on their way to becoming a real band. Though she could only make it to practices about once a week, Bill turned out to be a true asset. Not so much through her guitar playing, which was decent but nothing special, but because of the  _ vibe  _ she brought. The first thing she said upon seeing Ryan’s basement was, “This needs some major help,” whereupon she made it her self-appointed mission to transform  _ Bradderzbangers  _ into a true grunge band. 

 

Suddenly, there were white LED Christmas lights strung all over the walls, numerous  _ Alice Underground  _ posters, and one rotting pasteboard wall which was covered with what appeared to be spray paint. Actually, Grace didn’t want it stinking up the house, so Bill had used normal acrylics to paint a careful approximation of casual graffiti. 

 

The suede neon green couch stayed, though Yaz begged to have it towed, because Bill had deemed it “lit.” 

 

Also, she had introduced them all to flannel. 

 

Now that Yaz’s position as the lead singer necessitated the daily wearing of beanies, plaid, and distressed jeans, Bill had deemed her a “true lesbian”. 

 

“What about me?” Jane had asked plaintively. 

 

Bill studied her up and down, pointed at the  _ Doctor Who  _ poster on the wall, and said “Well, first of all, how’d you get your face printed on a poster?”  __

 

To which Yaz had hurriedly assured her that Jane was, in fact, not the same girl as the exceedingly attractive rocker chic guitarist printed on every surface that Yaz owned. “Huh,” said Bill dubiously.  

Graham, for his part, was over the moon to have another band member, even if she was just a guest performer. “Gotta make an extra trip to Costco,” he said, beaming. 

 

Auditions were two months away, and everything was going just dandy. They were sounding better by the day. 

 

Then the bus station by Yaz’s apartment closed for repairs, and she naively agreed to let Jane give her a ride home from practice. Big mistake. 

 

The first warning sign was when Jane nearly ran her massive blue car through Ryan’s garage door. 

 

“Do you even have a licence?” said Yaz, arms crossed. 

 

“Nah.” Jane cranked down the window, poked her head through. Something was wrong with that steering wheel, Yaz thought suddenly, studying it intently. Something which she couldn’t quite place. 

 

“Well, how are you driving then?”

 

“Without a licence,” Jane said slowly, as though it were obvious. “Come on, you’ll miss your curfew.” 

 

Theoretically, she could walk home; it was only a few kilometers. Or maybe Grace could drive her. But… well, Jane was wearing this black leather jacket, and it looked  _ really  _ good on her, and maybe she could walk Yaz to her front door, give her a goodbye kiss in the snow (nevermind that it wasn’t snowing, that detail could be sorted out later). All of this played through the Hopelessly Gay part of her head for a few seconds, and it turned out that unconscious suggestion was most deadly when administered by one’s own brain. 

 

“Fine.” 

 

She crossed over to the driver’s side of the car, made to open the door, and then realized that _ it was the driver’s side.  _

 

“Holy shit,” gasped Yaz, finally understanding why the steering wheel looked so out of place: it was on the left side of the car. 

 

As usual, Jane was totally oblivious. “Get in, then.” 

 

Yaz shook her head. “Is this an American car?” 

 

“Yeah, nice, isn’t it?” 

“No, I mean…” God, how could you even drive an American car in Britain? Yaz was sure that it was totally illegal. “So you’re driving a car on the left side of the road that’s meant to be driven on the right?” 

 

Jane didn’t seem to grasp the severity of the situation; instead, she simply shrugged and said, “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to move it over, but I’d have to take apart the whole engine, and I still need to replace the carburetor, and… well, it’s been a process. Are you getting in or not?”

 

Most of her brain screamed at her to flee back into the house. Most. The thing was, Yaz hated breaking rules. But this-- this was sort of exciting. Terrifying, yes, but exciting. Against her better judgement, she crossed over to the passenger side, pulled the handle. Found that she was unable to open the door. Through the window, Jane mimed a throat-slitting gesture. 

 

What?

 

Yaz tugged some more at the door. Jane made a gun with her hand, pretend-shot herself in the head. Was her bandmate threatening her? Surely not. Cautiously, she turned away from the vantage point of the window. 

 

“SUICIDE DOORS!” yelled Jane through the driver’s window, and suddenly Yaz understood, reaching over to pull the other way. With a creak, the door swung open and she slid into the car, abashed at having forgotten something which Jane talked about constantly. 

 

Okay, Yaz had to admit, the interior was beautiful: all purples and golds. The windshield columns were painted metallic orange like a lava lamp, and the bench seat was a soft suede, reupholstered in a tasteful black. She settled in, ran her hands along the fabric, searching.

 

“... Seatbelts?” 

 

Jane shook her head. 

 

“Airbags?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Jesus Christ.” 

 

“Don’t worry, Yaz. Hold onto me, I promise I’ll keep you safe.” 

It was possibly the corniest thing she had ever heard, and yet Yaz was probably far more touched than she should have been, considering that they were about to hurtle to their deaths in a seventy-year-old hunk of metal. Suicide doors indeed. 

She sidled over to Jane and wrapped her arms around the other girl’s waist as though it were no big deal. It quickly became clear that not only was Jane a reckless car owner, but also a terrible driver. Yaz wasn’t sure how much of this was her bandmate’s fault, given the fact that the TARDIS was, well,  _ reversed,  _ but either way, the following six minutes were the most terrifying of her life. Jane swerved between cars as though she were driving a motorcycle, ran three red lights, used the horn liberally, and stalled the car in the middle of a busy road. Yaz busied herself composing her last words in her head. 

 

When the TARDIS finally broke down in the middle of two parking spaces in front of Yaz’s apartment complex, she figured that this was the best she was going to get. 

 

“I’ll see you later,” she stuttered to Jane, realizing absently that her shaking hands were fisted tightly in the other girl’s shirt. How they had escaped death was a miracle. 

 

“Okay,” she replied, handing Yaz her purse. “Want me to drive you tomorrow, too?” 

 

“God, no-- I mean, uh, no thanks. Get home safe.”

 

“I will.” 

 

She didn’t. Ten minutes later, Yaz, nestled in a fluffy pink bathrobe with her hair down, answered a persistent knock on the front door. Jane was standing apologetically on her threshold. 

 

“I can’t get her started,” she lamented. “Do you guys have a jack or any power tools?” 

 

Yaz glanced around the apartment. Her parents were asleep and Sonya was probably out clubbing. “Look, why don’t you just stay here tonight? I’ll make tea.” 

 

She had never seen Jane’s face light up quite like it did then. “Oh, brilliant! Can I? Tea at Yaz’s, sleepover at Yaz’s. Perfect.” 

 

Smiling a little at her enthusiasm, Yaz padded over to the kettle. “Peppermint?” 

 

“Perfect.” 

 

Then they were seated at her kitchen counter, sipping tea, chatting idly and trying to ignore this  _ thing  _ between them which hadn’t existed before but maybe did now. Jane’s foot brushed Yaz’s lightly and she shivered. 

 

Of course, there was the question of where Jane would be sleeping. Yaz’s bed was tiny, barely even big enough for her. It was possible that she could use her sister’s, if Sonya was going to stay out all night. But you never knew with Sonya.

 

“Would you…” Yaz began, picking at the fuzzy sleeve on her bathrobe in an attempt to avoid her bandmate’s gaze. “I mean, it’s just that we don’t have a couch, and… you know.” 

 

“Sorry, I don’t get it,” said Jane in a deliberate voice that indicated that she very much got it, “what are you saying?” 

 

Yaz swallowed. “You might have to sleep with me?” 

 

“Damn,” replied Jane, cocking her head. “Buy me dinner first.” 

 

Sensing that they were back in over-the-top-flirting-to-avoid-the-situation territory, Yaz stood. No point in prolonging this any further. 

 

“Look, it’s late, and I need to pray. We can talk about it later.” 

 

Jane smiled barely. “Can I come?” 

 

“Uh... well, why not.” 

 

Rising from the table, Yaz brought their teacups to the sink, rinsed and loaded them into the dishwasher. It was too big, this apartment. Even with the kitchen lights on, the windows reflected a wan nighttime glow into the room, bathing Jane’s hair in a purplish light that made it appear almost red. It was impossible to ignore the resemblance then, not when Jane had the same defined cheekbones, the same glimmering eyes as the Doctor. Speaking of which…

 

“Come on,” she said, noticing suddenly that she was whispering. “I’ll show you my room.”  

 

She had just realized, a bit too late, that her borderline obsessive shrine to her favorite celebrity might have been a bit off-putting, but she had underestimated entirely the effect that her room had on Jane. Her bandmate stood in the doorway, taking in Yaz’s thirteen  _ Doctor Who  _ posters,  _ Doctor Who  _ guitar-themed duvet, collection of  _ Doctor Who  _ records, and four Doctor plushies. There was confusion in her eyes, and something else… fear, maybe? Yaz shivered. 

 

Finally, Jane spoke. “Wow, this is… quite a room. It's like a..." 

 

"Shrine?" Giggling uncomfortably, Yaz crossed over to her closet to put some space between them. 

 

“Serial killer den,” finished Jane, running her fingers along the lampshade that bore the image of her celebrity look-alike. 

 

"Wait, what?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Doctor.


	5. new year's eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone is an idiot and Jane's mouth has a very busy month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year's!

Yaz stopped in the process of looking for a clean hijab, turned around. “A serial killer den?” 

 

Jane seemed immensely uneasy. “Yeah, like one of those rooms you see in the movies, full of pictures and diagrams of the person that the villain is going to kill.” 

 

What was she talking about? Yaz laughed lightly, thinking that it was supposed to be a joke. Her bandmate did not. 

 

“Right,” responded Yaz awkwardly after a moment, clearing her throat. “Except, you know, the Doctor isn’t like a real person, you know?” 

 

“Uh. What is that supposed to mean?’ 

 

“Well,” she continued, leaning up against the wall. “I mean, she’s like a celebrity. She’s not like you or me, right? She’s this super mysterious, sexy as hell, musical genius. Plus, she’s probably already dead.” 

 

Jane looked her straight in the eye and said, “So you’re a necrophile.” 

 

“Yeah, that’s… Wait, no! I mean, no! Stop putting words in my mouth! That’s not what I said!” 

 

“Imagine if you died and I hung a million posters of  _ you  _ around my room,” she said, still lingering in the doorway. 

 

Yaz frowned. “Yeah, but I’m not a celebrity, obviously. Why are you so worked up about this, anyway? It’s not like the Doctor’s ever going to see it. Besides, don’t  _ you  _ have a celebrity crush?” 

 

“Huh,” said Jane, taking a hesitant step forward. Gently, she traced the edge of one of the guitars printed on the bedspread, looked up and surveyed the room. “I think I’d rather sleep in the hallway.” 

 

Disappointment welled up in Yaz’s throat before she had a chance to respond; blinking back an inexplicable feeling of shame, she padded over to the loo across the hall. The pipes in the apartment were rather loud-- the previous landlord had remodeled the living space, but the building complex itself had been built several decades ago. Bracing for the inevitable creaking, she cranked the faucet. Hopefully she wouldn’t wake her parents. She suddenly very much did not want them to meet Jane. 

 

Yaz rolled up her sleeves, began cleaning her arms and face. This should have been a time to reflect on the day, to get herself in a religious mindset, but instead her brain was hyperaware of her bandmate standing just a few meters away. Finally she turned--- why, she wasn’t sure. To apologize maybe, even though she had done nothing wrong. 

 

Jane was frozen, eyes fixated on a single tiny poster above the jewelry box. It was nearly hidden by a swim team trophy Yaz had gotten in seventh year. She squinted at it from across the hallway, tried to make out why such an insignificant picture would catch her friend’s attention. 

 

“Oh,” said Yaz, finally understanding. “Are you looking at the girl next to the Doctor in the poster? That’s Idris.” 

 

No response.  

 

“Idris is a singer. She’s the Doctor’s girlfriend,” she elaborated. “Well,  _ was _ .” 

 

Still Jane said nothing. 

 

“She died,” Yaz offered. “Their tour bus exploded, and... she died.” 

 

Silence. And then, “I know,” Jane whispered softly, so softly that Yaz could barely hear. She craned her neck to get a better view of her bandmate, was startled to realize that tears were misting in the corners of her eyes. 

 

She thought about maybe hugging her friend, comforting her. But Jane was still entranced by the poster, indiscernible emotions playing loud over her face. It was too intimate a moment for Yaz to intercede. 

 

“Listen,” she said after a few minutes spent standing in the bathroom, wet hands dripping on the floor. “Maybe you should-- Look, I’m gonna find my neighbor Pete, see if he has any jumper cables.” 

 

“Thank you,” murmured Jane hoarsely, still barely audible. Yaz watched in fascination as her fingers twitched, seemingly of their own accord. Gliding over invisible ridges and bumps, plucking nonexistent strings. Jane was playing an instrument, Yaz realized, and she didn’t even know she was doing it. 

 

She glanced between Jane and the  _ Doctor Who  _ poster above her bed, ran her eyes along the brutal, jagged purple scar on her bandmate’s neck. Coughing slightly to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming, she hurriedly fled the bathroom. 

 

Thirty minutes later they had gotten the TARDIS started again with the help of Yaz’s neighbor. As she watched Jane drive off, she felt an odd sense of relief, which was quickly replaced by worry when Jane swerved up onto a curb and back. 

 

That night, when she had finally gotten around to praying, she asked Allah to get her friend some proper driving lessons before she killed herself. 

 

Then Jane was at to school the next morning, bubbly as her usual self, and they acted as though that night had never happened. It was all right, Yaz thought. They could save the sleepover for another time. For now, this was enough.  

 

(She took down five of her posters, including the one with Idris. Just in case Jane came back.) 

 

******************************

 

Three very important things happened before the clock struck twelve on December 31st that year. The first was that Ryan’s great-aunt, who hadn’t seen him in four years, decided that a copy of Photoshop would be a lovely Christmas present for her nephew. 

 

Besides a proliferation of images involving their English teacher’s head superimposed on a rubber duck, Ryan managed to create a few mockup logos for  _ Bradderzbangers _ . Coupled with a couple promotional images from an upcoming photoshoot which Bill had scheduled, maybe they could finally have some proper band posters soon. 

 

The wrench in this plan was that, for someone with a diehard work ethic, Ryan really seemed more interested in creating memes of the various bandmates than actual promotional materials. For instance, he had written  _ when you ain’t got time to practice becoz you’ve gotta finish your pickle sandwich  _ over a blurry picture of Graham. Ryan’s awkward face got the caption  _ when lesbians take over your band.  _ Pretty standard stuff, really. 

 

Then he showed them the meme of Jane:  _ when you a dead ringer for a pop star but can’t play music for shit.  _ Yaz spit out her soda. 

 

Just to be clear, the caption itself wasn’t the reason that she was going to have to wash Coke out of her white sweater. It was the fact that Ryan had superimposed an image of Jane scrunching her nose onto the cover art for  _ Doctor Who’s  _ third album, Skaro Don’t Scare Me. 

 

Now, it was precisely at this moment that Yaz realized that the Doctor  _ also  _ used to do the nose scrunch occasionally in interviews. In fact, there was an entire (verified!) Twitter blog called The Scronch dedicated to the celebrity’s signature facial expression. 

 

Interesting. 

 

(It should be noted that, while most people would have come to a very obvious conclusion about the composer’s identity by now, Yaz was decidedly thick when it came to affairs of the heart.)

 

********

Important Thing #2: 

 

Jane’s birthday came and went with no circumstance. A prime opportunity for stealing a kiss, Yaz thought, and she had blown it. To be fair, she did try to bring a rose for her friend during band practice, but Ryan, who had a date to the holiday dance, had stolen it for his lapel. (The date didn’t work out. Served him right, she thought.) 

 

Meanwhile, Bill continued to entertain them all with what she called her “chaotic gay energy.” Currently, her driving mission for  _ Braddersbangerz  _ was to get them a venue for a show before their first audition. She said that it was to make a name for themselves ahead of time, so as to impress the Stanford folk, but it was common knowledge that she was, in fact, trying to impress  _ Heather  _ so they could get back together before her birthday (March 1st). 

 

“So we play a show,” she told Yaz as they painted their nails together for their photoshoot, “and then Heather gets all star-eyed, no pun intended, and then she runs up on stage and kisses me in front of everyone.” 

 

“Right,” said Yaz, who very much doubted that this would happen. 

 

“And then,” continued Bill casually, blowing on her index finger, “Heather joins the band.” 

 

_ “What?”  _

 

“As a tambourine player or something easy like that. ‘Cause then we could truly call it  _ Graham and the Lesbians.”  _

 

Ryan, who had consented to let them paint his toenails and was now regretting it, raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean Graham,  _ Ryan _ , and the lesbians?” 

 

Bill grinned. “I said what I said.” 

 

“How does that make sense?  _ I’m a man.”  _

 

Still smiling, she patted his shoulder. “You’re an honorary lesbian. It’s a title bestowed on a few lucky people every year. You should be proud.”

 

“... Great.” 

 

They lapsed into silence, Jane frowning at her newly blue fingernails. Apparently, she had never painted her own hands by herself before. She had said the same about curling her hair, putting on makeup, and wearing earrings. 

 

To which Yaz had said incredulously, “You’ve never put an earring in your own ear? How rich are your parents?” 

 

When she received no reply, Yaz realized suddenly that she knew practically nothing about her friend’s personal life. Jane was highly independent, drove a crazy-ass car, and had never mentioned parents or siblings before. Did she live by herself? Was she in foster care, like Bill? Why the hell had she never done anything for herself before? 

***

 

The photoshoot was at noon, so Ryan had petitioned his bandmates to go out for lunch beforehand, with the caveat of “but I’m poor, so someone else gets to pay.” 

 

This didn’t matter after all, though, because  _ Braddersbangerz _ was entirely unable to reach a consensus on what restaurant they were going to eat at. Yaz wanted curry, Ryan insisted on pizza, and Jane begged for fish fingers and (bizarrely enough) custard. Finally Bill pulled out a key ring and offered to sneak them into the school caf, which was packed full of frozen food, if they would help her load the frier and make chips. Graham, who usually got stuck with the check, advocated enthusiastically for this option, and soon they were crowded into Gallifrey’s kitchens.  

 

Although Bill had graduated from high school last year and had only worked in the caf for a few months, she was pretty damn good at making chips. They were evenly fried, crispy, warm. Basically all-around delicious. Even the ever-picky Jane had to admit that these were practically gourmet. The only problem was that Yaz was finding it increasingly difficult to suppress the urge to shove them all in her face, which would definitely  _ not  _ have been a turn-on. 

 

“Alright, let’s talk business,” said Bill once she had served everyone with a funny sort of professionalism. “I got some ideas for the photoshoot.” 

 

“Go,” said Graham. 

 

Bill chewed thoughtfully on a chip, eyes darting between Jane and Yaz in a way that made them uneasy. Finally, she spoke with a decided air. “We need lesbians in this band.” 

Was she serious? “We already have three.” 

 

“Four,” protested Ryan, who was evidently embracing his new honorary title. 

 

“No, no,” said Bill. “I mean, we need a lesbian  _ romance.  _ Fans will go crazy for that. We’ll attract all the baby gays, become a cult classic.” 

 

The other band members eyed each other. Stared back at Bill. Broke out laughing. 

 

“Look, we know you want Heather,” said Yaz through giggles. “Why do you need  _ our  _ permission?” 

 

Rolling her eyes, Bill flicked a chip at her. “Nah, I mean like you and Jane.” 

Okay. Okay.  _ Okay.  _

 

Look, If Yaz was being honest, she had kind of seen that coming. But it was weird to hear it spoken out loud, to realize that her bandmates might have all been aware of her low-key budding crush. She was about to open her mouth to protest when Jane, leaning casually against a counter, said 

 

“Sure, so you want us to kiss in the photoshoot or something?” 

 

Yaz choked on her mouthful of chips. 

 

“Swaay, waa?” she stammered, coughing up flecks of food. 

 

“Come again?” 

 

Heart racing, Yaz cleared her throat. “Sorry,  _ what?”  _

 

Jane seemed entirely unperturbed. “Yeah, sure. Friends kiss each other all the time, right? That’s a thing friends do.” 

 

“Nope,” said Ryan, who was apparently the only rational one there. “I dunno where you got that idea, but friends definitely do  _ not  _ kiss each other.” 

 

“Sure they do,” Bill replied, sliding off the counter. “Jane, c’mere.” 

 

Yaz, Graham, and Ryan watched in utter confusion as their two bandmates exchanged a light peck on the lips and then proceeded to go back to eating chips as though nothing had happened. 

 

“... That’s not a thing that normal people do,” Ryan finally muttered in disbelief. 

“Come on, it’s just a platonic smooch. So how about it, Yaz?” asked Jane innocently, her lower lip caught-- probably accidentally, knowing her-- between her teeth in a way that was unbearably sexy. 

 

Yaz’s brain short circuited. 

 

“Uh, I, um… no thanks,” she managed finally. “I’m good.” 

 

Jane shrugged. “If you say so.” 

 

(To be perfectly honest, Yaz had never really kissed anybody before. Sure, once she had allowed Mickey Smith to peck her cheek, but the sheer mediocrity of it was probably the reason she was gay in the first place. It’s also a bit difficult to get to first base when the only person you want to do it with is a mega-famous,  _ dead  _ celebrity.

 

But later that night, when the whirlwind of a photoshoot was over, she lay in bed, stared at the poster of the Doctor at Coachella, and heartily regretted saying no. Kissing her celebrity crush’s double? It wasn’t as though she would ever get this kind of opportunity again.)

 

**************************************

Important thing #3: 

 

As it turned out, she did get this opportunity again-- the very next day, in fact, which just so happened to be December 31st. Yaz was well aware that this was a cliche, but somehow cliches were bearable when they were actual events of your own life. 

 

There wasn’t much to say besides that. Amy, who was unquestionably the most popular girl at Gallifrey, was throwing a New Year’s party, and Mels, who was only fifteen but still unquestionably the most badass girl at Gallifrey, had somehow secured eight kegs of booze. 

 

The nice thing about Amy was that she had no parents. Were they dead? Were they always missing? Nobody really knew, least of all Amy herself. But, either way, it meant that there was nobody to hold her accountable for damage to the house, so her parties were  _ ragers.  _

Or so Yaz had heard. She had never been to a party before, either-- another first. It wouldn’t be her only one that night. 

 

*******************

“So you’re gonna hold the mascara brush up to your lashes, and kind of spin it…” 

 

Bill was, in vain, trying to explain to Jane how to put on makeup. The composer had figured out maybe fifty ways to use Yaz’s products, everything short of actually putting them on her face. 

 

“No, not like-- Jesus Christ, Jane, don’t stab it in your eye! What are you… okay, Yaz, pass me the makeup remover.”

 

After ten minutes more of this, Yaz was genuinely afraid that Bill might snap and murder someone, so she offered to take over. With deft fingers, she ran a hand over Jane’s cheekbones, realized that it felt sort of nice, and repeated the motion absently. 

 

“Okay,” she began, doing a onceover of her friend’s face, “You don’t really need contour. Your cheekbones are already pretty hot, uh, good, I mean.” 

 

Bill snorted. “Her cheekbones could cut a bitch.”

 

Yaz felt Jane’s face stretch into a smile beneath her hands. “Yeah, my girlfriend always used to…” She faltered. “Um, never mind.” 

 

Wait. 

 

_ Her girlfriend?  _ Holy shit, had Jane been dating someone this whole time? Had Yaz really been lusting after a  _ taken girl?  _ Shit, shit, shit. Swallowing, she dropped her hands, studied Jane’s face with wide eyes. 

 

“Sorry, I didn’t…” she began, not knowing what exactly she was trying to say. Jane returned her gaze shyly, and then suddenly they were having a  _ moment.  _

 

Bill very conspicuously cleared her throat, starting toward the door. “I’ll go pick out something to wear. Take your time.” 

 

“Okay,” murmured Yaz. “Okay.” 

 

           As the guitarist left the room, she lightly brushed some powder over Jane’s nose, trying very hard to avoid her gaze. Too hard, maybe. It was inevitable that, in the process of rubbing things on a person’s face, you probably would have to look at them. Which, of course, is what happened eventually.  

 

Awkwardness ensued. 

 

Right, now to ask about Jane’s girlfriend in an unobtrusive way that didn’t make Yaz seem like she was asking about Jane’s girlfriend. Easy. She cleared her throat. 

 

“I can’t believe you have a  _ girlfriend!” _

 

Shit, so maybe subtlety wasn’t her forte. 

 

Jane shifted uncomfortably on the stool. “Well, uh, yeah, I have a… I mean, I… we’re not together. Anymore.” 

 

Oh thank god. Yaz feigned disappointment while simultaneously doing an internal happy dance. “Wow, I’m, um, really sorry. When did you break up?” 

 

Swallowing, the composer glanced away, picked at the fabric of her shirt. “It’s been a couple years.” 

 

_ Years?  _ That was not normal, which was the excuse that Yaz had come up with to explain her admittedly insensitive next words:  _ “What?  _ Are you fucking kidding? You need to move on!” 

 

Yes, after much subsequent late-night deliberation and regret, she realized that it was not a very nice thing to say. No need to rub it in. But  _ still.  _ Two years had passed, and Jane was still calling this mysterious ex her  _ girlfriend?  _ How the hell was Yaz supposed to compete with that? 

 

Although, to be fair, it should be noted that Jane didn’t react nearly as badly as she, by all rights, should have. Pushing a blonde curl away from her face, she inhaled, slowly raised her gaze up to meet Yaz’s. 

 

“Yes,” she whispered seriously. “Maybe I do.” 

 

*****************

 

Here’s how Yaz’s first kiss happened: 

 

After Amy had patted every band member down, searching for pot, which she claimed “stunk up the house,” (never mind that Mels was rolling a joint two meters away), they were permitted to enter. It was a rather creepy house, all peeling paint and dilapidated drywall, and Yaz  _ swore  _ that door in the corner of her eye hadn’t been there five seconds ago. But hey, that was the purpose of alcohol, right? Bill poured them each a plastic red cup of beer. 

 

“Ah, apple juice, brilliant,” chirped Jane, who proceeded to down the whole thing in one gulp and then rapidly refill it. Right, she wasn’t fooling anyone. 

Yaz, who didn’t really feel like testing the universe’s patience again today, discreetly dumped her drink into the nearest potted plant. Poor gardener had his work cut out for him. 

 

Then a somewhat tipsy Amy screamed that Jack Harkness had arrived, which meant it was  _ party time.  _ This mostly entailed blowing out all seven stereos while a writhing mass of teenagers gyrated on the staircase. 

 

After a miserable half hour Bill, who was definitely not sober, pulled Yaz aside. 

 

“You know how we got like three lesbians in  _ Bradders?”  _ she yelled over the ‘music’. 

 

“Yeah,” screamed back Yaz, wondering what this was about. 

 

Bill waved her red cup emphatically. “Well, it’s basically inevitable that two of us are going to hook up with each other at some point.” 

 

Wait a second. “Bill, are you, like,  _ propositioning  _ me?” 

 

“NO!” squawked the guitarist with a practically audible eyeroll. “I’m calling dibs on Jane, obvs!” 

Yaz nearly fell over in surprise. What the hell? Had her bandmate totally forgotten about Heather? Besides, you couldn’t just  _ call dibs  _ on a person! She told Bill as much, angrily clenching the hem of her sweater. 

 

With a grin, Bill leaned against the wall. “Maybe I’m interested in Jane instead of Heather now.” 

 

“No!” hissed Yaz, outraged. “You can’t just… Jane can’t date  _ you!”  _

 

Bill seemed to be enjoying herself. “Why not?” 

 

“Because…” Actually, she couldn’t think of a good reason. “Well, just  _ because!”  _

 

“Because  _ what?”  _ prompted her  ~~ friend ~~ sudden rival. “It’s not like  _ you  _ want to date her.” 

 

Annoyingly, this sentence had been mostly true until about ten seconds ago. Yes, Yaz had admired Jane from afar for some time, but she hadn’t really been interested in making a move. Now, though? She was  _ not  _ going to let Bill get ahead of her. 

 

“Of course I do, wanted to for  _ years _ ,” she said furiously. Okay, technically, she had only known Jane for a few months. That part really didn’t matter. Either way, she had bigger problems to focus on, because for some worrying reason, Bill currently looked like the cat that got the cream. 

 

“Reallyyyyy?” she drawled with a shit-eating grin. “I doubt it. In fact, Yaz, I bet if I dared you to kiss her when the New Year’s countdown ends, you wouldn’t do it.” 

 

Suddenly, Yaz got the distinct feeling that something was going on beneath the surface here. “I bet I would,” she said cautiously, silently hoping that she wouldn’t be expected to follow through with this. 

 

Apparently Bill could read minds. “Ten quid says you won’t.” 

 

Yaz didn’t have ten quid. “Fifteen says I will.” 

 

If possible, Bill’s grin only got wider. “You’re on.” 

 

Shit. 

 

**********

 

It felt like a really,  _ really  _ long time until midnight struck. This was probably due to the fact that Yaz’s insides were knotted in a practically Herculean way, which in turn was no doubt caused by the Gay Panic Alarm **™** that her brain had helpfully supplied. Still, time remained surprisingly linear and it was five minutes to the hour before she knew it. 

 

_ Screw Bill, I’m not going to kiss her,  _ she resolved as Amy gathered everyone around to chant the countdown. Then she noticed the sparkly reindeer headband directly to her left belonging to a very familiar blonde girl and realized that she had unconsciously situated herself in The Optimal Kissing Position **™** . (Yes, she was trademarking a lot of things right now. It was a thing she did when she was nervous). 

 

“TWO MINUTES!” screamed Amy from her position on the kitchen table. 

 

Yaz turned to Jane. “Who are you going to kiss?” 

 

“I dunno. Probably nobody.” Jane squinted. “Why, are you…” 

 

“Oh, uh, no,” said Yaz hastily, squirming. “I just… yeah.” 

 

“ONE MINUTE!” 

 

“We really shouldn’t kiss,” said the composer, cocking her head. “I mean, you and me.” 

 

Yaz swallowed a gulp of disappointment. “Right, of course not.” 

 

“It would be a bad idea,” continued Jane. “Really bad.” 

 

“TEN!” 

 

“Yeah,” repeated Yaz. “Uh, really bad.” 

 

“EIGHT!” 

 

“I mean, you’re obsessed with my celebrity lookalike…” 

 

“SIX!” 

 

“And we’re in a band together, it would complicate things.” 

 

“FOUR!” 

 

Yaz gulped. “Yeah, I totally agree. Really bad idea.” 

 

“THREE! TWO! ONE!” 

 

“Well, then, Happy platonic New Year,” she whispered, twirling a long strand of her dark hair around her finger. “I hope you--” 

 

Jane kissed her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, all the tropes just flow from me when I write.


	6. how to kiss: a detailed explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yaz realizes that she probably should've practiced a little first before kissing the woman of her dreams. You know, like lip calisthenics or something.

Yaz was new at this. 

 

And bad. 

 

Mostly bad. 

 

It was a weird sensation, she thought, having someone’s lips pressed up against yours. Jane’s were amazingly soft, considering that she abhorred Chapstick. Also, supple. Her mouth was gentle, yielding, as though she wanted Yaz to take control of the kiss. (This proved to actually be sort of a problem.)

 

Truth be told, Yaz had no idea what the hell she was doing. She tried her best, sort of pursed her lips and firmly pressed into the corner of her friend’s mouth, all the while thinking  _ this is not how they do it in the movies.  _ For the life of her, though, she couldn’t figure out the thingy people usually did with their tongues. She was a bad kisser, in short. 

 

“You’re a bad kisser,” confirmed Jane when she pulled away a mere eight or ten seconds later, grimacing and wiping her mouth. 

 

Well, okay then, it was official. But still, did she have to say it like  _ that?  _ Yaz’s whole face was probably colouring up to match the hue of her little red dress.  

 

“Sorry,” she stammered, avoiding her friend’s (?) gaze. Actually, scratch that question mark. If Jane had thought of her as more than a friend before now, well, Yaz had just decidedly ruined her chances. She may not have known much about romance, but one thing was pretty certain. 

 

Nobody wanted to date a bad kisser. 

 

************

The next day at band practice was predictably awkward. Aside from the fact that almost everyone was trying to hide a hangover from Ryan (who berated them all about losing focus on the scholarship), Yaz and Jane wouldn’t make eye contact and Bill was on her period. They all knew this for the very simple reason that she wouldn’t shut up about it. 

 

“Damn  _ cramps,”  _ she moaned loudly every time Ryan told her to stop slouching over on the sofa. 

 

Yeah, it was a fun practice. 

 

Between their first two songs, Yaz cautiously eyed Jane, wondering if she was going to get an explanation for last night. Or was that Yaz’s job? No, it couldn’t be. After all, Jane had kissed  _ her.  _ Surely she deserved to know why. 

 

But an explanation seemed increasingly less likely, and by the time they had finished playing their final song  _ (Hope Witness Reward),  _ Jane had not so much as glanced in her direction. Fine, if she wanted to be that way, Yaz would take matters into her own hands. 

 

“About last night,” she murmured softly, sliding down on the loveseat next to Jane as the others ran upstairs for pizza. “I, uh…” 

 

“Oh,” said Jane in a voice that could summon bats, “I don’t remember last night at all. Way too drunk. Watch out for that alcohol, it’ll do you in, right Yaz?”

 

It was patently clear that she was lying. Both because she was fidgeting in her seat, and because five minutes ago she had done a convincing impression of Amy Pond’s Scottish voice counting down to midnight. Yaz considered the merits of calling her out, decided that there were none, and then proceeded to push the subject further anyway because bad decisions were sort of her trademark.

 

“So,” she began, crossing her legs on the sofa. “I mean-- we’re still friends, Jane. Right?” 

 

Jane swallowed, picked at a thread in the upholstery. Eyes still averted, she unraveled a whole strand of neon green cotton. 

 

“Friends,” insisted Yaz. 

 

“Friends,” Jane repeated finally, and just like that, she was back to her old, bright self. “Anyway, let’s get pizza, eh?”

 

**

Unfortunately, the bus stop was still out of service. This left Yaz with three alternatives: get a ride from Bill or Jane, or walk home in the freezing early January conditions. Since she had no desire to die from either frostbite or whiplash, Bill seemed like the best alternative that day. But barely had the guitarist turned the key in her tiny car that the passenger door slammed open and Ryan slid in, right on top of Yaz. 

 

She squeaked. “What the hell, dude?” 

 

“Sorry,” muttered Ryan, shifting. “Sleepover at Bill’s.” 

 

Yaz heaved him off her lap and crawled up to crouch on the carseat. “Sorry, that explains literally nothing.” 

 

Apparently unperturbed, Bill cranked up the heat. “Moira’s invited Grace and Graham to this all-night gala thing in town, so Ry-Ry’s staying over at my place tonight to avoid doing all the dishes we left in his sink.” 

 

This left Yaz with several questions, the most pertinent being “Ry-Ry? Since when are we calling him  _ that?”  _

 

Bill ignored her. “Hey, we should get Indian takeout!” 

 

With a grin, Ryan maneuvered over to the edge of the carseat. “Yeah! Let’s do curry!” 

 

Yaz raised her eyebrows. Repeatedly. 

 

“You could stay too,” commented the guitarist, pressing the gas with considerably more skill than Jane. “Got an extra sleeping bag, and it’d be fun.” 

 

She was momentarily saved from answering by the Seatbelt Debacle™, which was the question of how the hell it was legal and/or possible to jam three people into a car meant for two. Attempting to maintain her balance whilst the vehicle was moving, Yaz scooted down so that she was sharing the passenger seat with Ryan. After a minute, they had sort of found a comfortable position. Then the car lurched and she flew straight into the dashboard. 

 

“Okay, mate,” said Ryan, “I think if you just like sit on my lap, we can fit the belt over both of us. Sound good?” 

 

It did not. “Nah, see, if I do that, it’s really obvious to officers that we’re breaking the law,” she told him. “If we’re side by side, there’s a chance they’ll think it’s a bench seat.” 

 

Bill harrumphed.  _ “You _ should be a copper, already think like ‘em.” 

 

This began a heated discussion about the merits of safe driving and seatbelts that somehow ended with Ryan and Bill’s extremely loud, off-tempo rendition of N.W.A.’s  _ Fuck Da Police.  _

 

“A classic,” murmured the drummer when they were finished, wiping tears from his eyes. 

 

Yaz shook her head. Someday, when she got her own car, she wouldn’t tolerate this sort of nonsense while driving.

 

Then they rounded the block and the curry place was visible and  _ okay,  _ maybe she would hang out with them after all. Not all night-- just for dinner. She hated sleepovers. 

 

*************

 

“I  _ love  _ sleepovers!” screamed a sleep-deprived and more-than-a-little-drunk Yaz nearly seven hours later. It was two in the morning; she was sprawled over Bill’s sofa, munching on chips and, yes, drinking. Umbreen would have her head if she knew, but hey, a little alcohol once in a while never hurt anyone. If  _ anyone  _ was going to face Allah’s wrath and all that, it was Sonya. Enough said. 

 

Across the room, Ryan was (unsuccessfully) attempting to dab, and Bill was laughing her ass off at the concept of grapes. 

 

“They’re like, little flavored juice spheres!” she was telling nobody in particular between giggles. “How the hell do they all grow together? Like, imagine if  _ apples  _ decided to…” 

 

“I’mma bad kisser!” moaned Yaz suddenly, springing off the sofa. Shit. She hadn’t meant to tell anybody about last night, but she wasn’t really thinking straight at the moment. Actually, it didn’t seem so bad anymore, now that she had a few glasses in her. 

 

“Say what?” giggled Bill, half-distracted by Ryan’s wild arm motions. “You wanna kiss me?” 

 

“Nahhh,” she slurred back. “I kissed Jane, and she’s all like  _ you suck, you dumbass bitch!”  _

 

Okay, maybe she was paraphrasing for dramatic effect. Either way, it appeared to leave an impression. Bill gasped theatrically, and Ryan momentarily suspended his ill-fated dab attempts to squint at her. 

 

When he finally spoke, he sounded very disappointed. “Common Yaz, you been wanting to softball that chick since _years,_ and you screw up?” 

 

Drunk Ryan was extremely difficult to understand, but it helped that she was also under the influence. She was pretty sure that the softball thing referred to  _ crossing the bases,  _ which had been Yaz’s middle school way of saying she would totally bang the Doctor. 

 

“C’mon,” she responded, plopping down on the rug in front of both her friends. “I’m talking ‘bout the Doc, not Jane-- er, other way around, actually. Damn, I’m dizzy.” 

 

Bill, who could hold her liquor best, cocked her head thoughtfully. “It was your first kiss, right?” 

 

“Mhmmm,” she moaned. “Well, ‘cept for Mickey in primary school, but that doesn’t count.” 

 

“Well,” said the guitarist brightly, “You just gotta snog some other girls, get the hang of it.” 

 

This was easier said than done, and Yaz told her so (or she at least managed some garbled, drunken version of the idiom.) 

 

Taking another swig of beer, Bill replied, “Not hard at all. C’mere.” 

 

Okay, well, that was unexpected. 

 

“Uh,” was Yaz’s brilliant response.  _ Alert, brain short-circuiting imminent.  _ And look, while she didn’t fancy her friend in any sense of the word, the fact remained that Bill was  _ really  _ hot, maybe even more so than Jane, and Yaz was just a simple lesbian, and, well. She wasn’t immune, to put it that way. And maybe it was just the alcohol, or--

 

Then suddenly Bill’s lips were on hers and her brain went blank. 

 

It was different than kissing Jane, she decided after a few seconds. Bill was more… thorough, more deliberate. Scientific, even. Yaz tried to do her best. 

 

“Right,” said Bill briskly, pulling away, “You’re using  _ way  _ too much tongue. This is kissing, Yaz-- you’re  _ not  _ trying to eat me out, unless your aim is worse than I thought.” 

 

Blushing, she stammered, “Uh, sorry…” 

 

“And that teeth thing you’re doing,” continued the guitarist with a frown, “Is  _ so  _ not cute.” 

 

Yaz swallowed. “It’s just, I saw someone do it before… um, I think a movie character?” 

 

“Hannibal Lecter?” Bill snorted. “Okay, go brush your teeth and we’ll do take two, and this time you’d better not keep your friggin’ eyes open the whole time.” 

  
  


*************

 

Yaz awoke to an unfairly bright light and the telling sound of Ryan puking. Her head spun, and naturally it was only a few moments before her curry met the same unfortunate fate. 

 

“God.” She tried to make it back to her sleeping bag but collapsed instead onto Bill’s mattress, head colliding with the guitarist’s stomach. “Exactly how much did we drink last night?” 

 

“I don’t know, but everything hurts,” moaned Bill lowly, jamming a pillow over her eyes. “I think we kissed.” 

 

Oh, right. The memory came back to her in fuzzy flashes and she rolled off her friend, mortified. “Uh… uhm, sorry about that, really, I mean-- we were really drunk.” 

 

“Oh god, yeah we were.” Bill’s stomach vibrated lightly, indicating that either she was laughing or her appendix was rupturing. Yaz opened her eyes a fraction to check and quickly shut them against the flood of light. Ugh, why did alcohol exist again? Her head thundered. 

 

Apparently she was getting divine punishment after all- instant karma, as Graham would say- because a few seconds later, something hard whacked Yaz smack in the middle of the forehead. Bill screeched and flung her pillow in no particular direction. 

 

“It’s ibuprofen,” whispered Ryan in a pained voice. “Damn you guys, I’m never drinking again.” 

 

Sighing, Yaz burrowed into the duvet. “What even happened? Besides the… you know, kissing.” 

 

A snort came from Ryan’s general direction. “You guys really went for it. Like, damn, I thought I was gonna have to pull you off each other.”

 

The pillows shifted and Bill said, “not my worst Friday night, anyway. Hey, that’s two nights in a row I’ve made out with a rando while hammered, should be some kind of record…” 

 

This was true of Yaz as well, although she’d been totally sober on New Year’s, so really, she didn’t have an excuse. Still, she tried to keep up conversation in the hopes that her nausea would recede with enough distraction. “Hey, who’d you kiss at midnight anyway?” 

  
  


“Mels,” chuckled Bill with some satisfaction, “and lemme tell ya, that wasn’t  _ all  _ we did…” 

 

Yaz had the distinct feeling that the guitarist had said those exact words to her last night as well, but then again, last night was sort of a blur. She opened her mouth to ask more, promptly closed it, ran to the bathroom, and threw up. 

 

She was  _ never  _ drinking again. 

 

Ryan’s voice rang out in the chilly morning air. “Uh, guys, just remembered band practice starts in an hour. We gotta get ready.” 

 

Dammit, this was going to be a long day. But hey, at least she ‘knew the game now’, as drunk Ryan had put it last night. 

 

That boy and his softball analogies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lesbians + softball = true love
> 
> Haha guess what, I'm not dead! Sorry this one was shorter than usual, it's 11 pm and I felt like posting so... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Anyway lol I will continue to write this story, and I'd love any feedback/suggestions for where it should go from here.


	7. I have bad judgement clearly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lol why am i posting chapters like 2 days apart????? uhm also if you're confused about the layout of Yaz's apartment complex, just,,,, idk, google some pics from arachnids or something

The time had come for Bradderzbanger’s first official gig. 

 

Alright, to be fair, “official gig” was a bit of wishful thinking. Apparently Bill had poked around in Basil Disco’s browser history and, uh, uncovered some  _ intimate  _ photos from his wife River. Out of sheer embarrassment, he scheduled them for a few songs in his juice joint even though, on principle, he usually refused to let anyone but himself perform. “Would spoil the bloody effect,” he said when pressed on the issue. 

 

It was exciting, though, their first time playing for anyone but Grace. Nerve wracking, too-- Yaz knew that the teenagers of Sheffield would be far less forgiving than Ryan’s nan, who cheered thunderously even when they were off-key. 

 

It was three days before the performance, then two, and Yaz found her stomach gnawing with anticipation. She found that she didn’t need her daily dose of coffee to keep her energized; she was bouncing with nervous energy. It wasn’t unique to her, either. The entire band, except perhaps Graham (pickle sandwiches soothed the nerves, he insisted), seemed a bit on edge, but none more so than Jane. 

 

Finding herself unable to sleep for the second night in a row, Yaz puzzled over this. It was strange;  _ they  _ would be the ones performing, after all. Jane just wrote the music and managed the sound systems. She would be an audience member tomorrow night, packed backstage amidst the ancient, rusting speaker system. And yet she was visibly nervous. It was almost as though she was  _ afraid  _ of something. Maybe that the public wouldn’t like her songs? 

 

Yaz snorted softly, clutching her  _ Doctor Who  _ comforter around her chin. God, nobody could write lyrics like Jane. Only freaks like Harry Saxon would complain about her music; Jane was second to none. (Well, except maybe the Doctor.  _ No,  _ Yaz thought after a moment, Jane’s were even better- packed full of depth and meaning that her celebrity doppelganger’s songs had sometimes lacked.) 

 

The framed photo of the Doctor on her window seal chose that exact moment to fall face down onto the carpet. Yaz cursed. Instant karma for besmirching her idol’s name? No, upon closer inspection, it seemed that something had hit the window and knocked it off.

 

_ Ping!  _

 

Frowning, she bent over the edge of her bed to peer out through the glass. A pebble bounced against it suddenly, startling her. 

 

_ Wait, what the hell?  _

 

Yaz flung open the window, and there-- speak of the devil-- was Jane, stooped over to pick up another rock. 

 

She coughed loudly. “Hey, Romeo, what are you doing at my flat at  _ one in the damn morning?”  _

 

From two stories away, Jane’s dimly lit face broke into a grin. “Throwing pebbles,” she called back loudly, apparently not caring that Yaz’s family, not to mention the entire apartment complex, was asleep literally one hundred feet away. 

 

Wait a second. Yaz glanced at the slatted bars lining the walkway around her window, then back at her friend. Damn. “You have really good aim,” she admitted grudgingly, to which Jane gave a little bow. “So why are you here, anyway?” 

 

“You know, balcony scene,” yelled back the other girl. 

 

Uh. “Could you be more specific?” 

 

“What?” 

 

“I said,” repeated Yaz a bit louder, wary of her parents asleep in the next room, “Could you-- oh, nevermind. Gimme a sec!” 

 

Suddenly wide awake, Yaz pulled on a hoodie and her sneakers (no socks--oops) and hoisted herself with some difficulty out of her window. It wasn’t the first time she had done this, but if her parents found out, she was dead. Surprisingly, no late drunken stragglers were on the walkway or the stairs. The night was utterly silent-- spooky, really. She leaned over the railing. 

 

“Ah, Yasmin, Yasmin, wherefore art thou Yasmin,” called Jane playfully. 

 

Shivering, Yaz managed a small laugh. “Pretty sure it’s the other way around. And this isn’t technically a balcony, there’s stairs.”

 

“Thus making it easier for you to escape,” replied her friend with a glint in her eyes that was practically visible even from two stories up in the freakin’ pitch black darkness. Seriously, you could smell trouble on this girl. Yaz tried not to be too turned on. 

 

Okay, apparently she was sneaking out of the house with a really cute girl who thought that she was a bad kisser and just so happened to look like a dead mega celebrity. Yaz pinched herself. 

 

“Where are we going?” she replied instantly, kind of hating herself for not hesitating before realizing that she had already moved to shut the window behind her, and that the answer had never been anything but  _ yes.  _ Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid  _ brain. She would never be a good cop if all it took for her to break the rules was a pretty girl with a ridiculously dangerous car. 

 

Then she was hopping down the stairs (sort of awkwardly, probably due to the fact that it was freaking  _ cold),  _ and Jane was grabbing her hand, and before she knew it Yaz found herself hovering next to said ridiculously dangerous car. 

 

She was pretty sure that she had vowed never to set foot in this piece of junk ever again after last time. 

 

“Come on,” urged Jane, already pulling open her door. 

 

Yaz hesitated. 

 

“It’s heated,” offered her friend brightly. 

 

With a long-suffering sigh, Yaz held her hand out for the keys. 

 

Jane shook her head. “You won’t be able to drive it, you gotta bypass the ignition to start it ‘cause I… uhmmm, somebody _ ,  _ definitely not me, hot wired it originally. Plus there’s no power steering. And it doesn’t turn left unless you crank the...  yeah, nevermind.” 

 

“So you stole a car.” Unimpressed, Yaz slid onto the bench seat. 

 

“Borrowed. And I  _ said  _ it wasn’t me,” she replied unconvincingly.  

 

Yaz just shook her head, reached for the nonexistent seatbelt, and remembered that said nonexistent seatbelt did not, in fact, exist. Right, so she was doing the  _ hold onto Jane for dear life  _ thing again, which definitely wouldn’t be awkward at all given their recent, um,  _ physical intimacy.  _ Alright, fine, maybe she was placing a bit too much value on a simple New Year’s kiss, but it wasn’t every day that you got to make out with your crush. Even if said make out was less than optimal. 

 

“Right, so where are we even going?” she managed, trying not to stare at Jane’s quite nice biceps as she hotwired her own car. 

 

The TARDIS growled uncertainly to life and Jane grinned. “Hang onto my waist, she’s been a bit lurchy lately.” 

 

_ Great.  _

 

“Just try not to kill me, alright?”

 

The composer’s smile faded. “I’m taking you to a museum,” she exclaimed loudly, slamming on the gas pedal. 

 

The car stalled. Yaz rolled her eyes. 

 

A museum, though, that was interesting. Several questions flickered through her mind, including  _ why though? what does she want to show me?  _ and, perhaps most pertinent,  _ what the hell kind of a museum is open at one in the morning?  _

 

As it turned out, the answer to that one was simple: none, something which Yaz realized suddenly when Jane pulled up to an ominously large and completely dark building. 

 

“Sheffield’s world-renowned art and music museum,” announced Jane brightly, jumping out of the vehicle with the ease of someone who was used to  _ this fucking car,  _ which was Yaz’s personal outlook on the TARDIS after she spent four minutes just trying to open the stupid suicide door. 

 

“But it’s closed,” she protested after Jane had half-dragged her up the steps of the museum’s courtyard. 

 

“Not for long,” replied her ever-crafty friend, whipping a-- was that a  _ screwdriver?--  _ out of her pajama pocket. Come to think of it, Jane was wearing  _ pajamas _ . Yaz wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed it earlier, but now the absurdity of the situation fully struck her. 

 

“So we’re breaking into an art museum at some unholy hour,” she observed incredulously, “you in your nighties and me in my sweats?” 

 

Jane’s face lit up. “Exactly, ten points to Yaz-- no, twenty, this is going to be brilliant! Oh, I need you to keep watch. The night guard patrols around here every thirty minutes; not due for another ten but best to check anyway… now gimme a minute, this lock can be hard to shimmy open sometimes…” 

 

In fact, it took her a minute and not one second less to open the door with what appeared to be a standard flathead screwdriver, and then they were quietly stumbling into the foyer of the museum, Yaz’s sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor. Damn, this was insane-- a tendril of fear took root at the pit of her stomach. What if they got caught? Surely there were guards inside this place, especially if the artwork was valuable, which it probably was. 

 

“We’re not here for the art,” whispered Jane, echoing Yaz’s thoughts. Deftly, she maneuvered them both into the corners of the room, which were shrouded in shadows. “There aren’t any guards in the main foyer, nothing valuable here, but we’ll pass some on our way. Just be quiet, okay?” 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Yaz murmured. She sent out a quick prayer, then realized that it probably sounded rather bad considering the situation.  _ Yo Allah, could you help me and my mate break into a museum for no discernable reason? And, like, not get us arrested? Thanks homie.  _

 

Yeah, okay, they were on their own here as far as divine intervention was concerned. 

 

“Ready?” said Jane, gripping Yaz’s hand tightly. 

 

“No, not at all.”

 

When did refusing to do a stupid thing ever stop Jane? Never, apparently, because this seemed answer enough for the composer, who started down the main hallway at breakneck speed. “Come on, let’s get a shift on!”

 

_ Shit, _  thought Yaz,  _guess I'm_ _  actually doing this. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea I know this chapter is only like 2000 words but it's midnight and I'm using this to procrastinate on doing my math homework so I'm posting it to make myself stop already
> 
> *chastises own poor decision-making*


	8. doctor?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some random gay idiots break into a museum, the Angst™ makes a special-feature guest appearance, and _Bradderzbangers_ , (which, incidentally, I spell differently every time) plays their first show.

The following four and a half minutes were easily the most terrifying of Yaz’s life. Jane led her through another antechamber, from which Yaz could clearly see two or three guards in the other room, about  _ ten meters away.  _

 

She froze. 

 

“Come on,” mouthed Jane, exasperated. Shivering, Yaz ducked back into the shadows and followed her friend down a smaller side hallway, which led to a display gallery. 

 

Where there was yet  _ another  _ guardpost. Confused, she scanned the area, but there were no other exits; Jane was leading them  _ right  _ to the nightguards. She poked her friend and gestured to the end of the hallway, as though to say “seriously?” 

 

_ Shit, they were going to get arrested.  _

 

Why had she agreed to do this again? Yaz had plans for the future, and though they were hazy at the moment, they definitely did  _ not  _ include sharing a cell with her hot bandmate. 

 

Jane nudged her and gestured vaguely toward a small door on the side of the hallway. Squinting, Yaz shook her head. The  _ fire escape?  _ Why had they broken in at all if they were just going to leave? Either way, it was better than being arrested, she figured, so she shuffled quietly over and laid her weight on the door. 

 

It was quite heavy, and she wasn’t entirely sure how to budge it open without making noise. 

 

“Lemme help,” whispered Jane, pressing down against the handle and shifting her weight forward. Yaz tried to copy her, and the door creaked forward reluctantly after a few seconds. She slid through, wincing at the noise. 

Somebody coughed in the guardpost station; the sound reverberated through the darkened hallway. 

 

“Hurry!” hissed Yaz, clutching at Jane’s hand and dragging her into the stairwell. She gripped at the handle, letting it fall shut as quietly as possible. 

 

Jane giggled mutely. “Okay, we’re good now.” 

 

Good? They were trapped in a freaking fire escape! 

 

Shivering, Yaz slid out of the vantage point of the window. “Uh, what are we…” 

 

“Shh,” whispered Jane. We’re almost there. Follow me.” 

 

_ ********************* _

As it turned out,  _ there  _ was an eerily quiet basement, lit only with the green glare of several signs marked EXIT. Somehow _ , _ Jane had managed to unlock a small staff door-- which had no external lock  _ or  _ handle-- and force her way in. Some kind of magnetism trick, she explained breathlessly. 

 

“This is creepy,” murmured Yaz despite herself, watching as trails of light bounced off the glass panels surrounding the room. It wasn’t too large, not the sort of sweeping gallery that one would usually associate with a museum. Rather, it seemed like an overly neat band practice room; various instruments were scattered throughout, accompanied with little plastic placards. 

 

Jane squeezed her hand. “This is the music part, it’s brilliant! There aren’t any guards down here coz there’s nothing valuable, just a couple displays and some music equipment.” 

The room was so starkly different from the rest of the museum that Yaz wondered if they hadn’t built the art part afterwards, on top of the rest. Either way, they now had a totally empty room filled with high-tech equipment and…

 

Wait a minute. Had Yaz really snuck out of the house at one in the morning, driven in an illegal car, and broken into a museum just to  _ practice?  _

What. The. Hell. 

 

She rubbed her eyes groggily. “Uh, not to be a buzzkill, but  _ why  _ exactly have you brought me here?” 

 

“It’s tradition.” Grinning, Jane plucked the string of a nearby cello, which emitted a rather doleful noise. “It’s-- you always sneak out before a big show, cause some trouble, calm your nerves.” 

 

Yaz blinked. 

 

“...Or so I’ve heard,” amended Jane hastily. “Hey, let’s have a jam session!” 

 

Well, if this was supposed to calm her nerves, Yaz reflected, it certainly wasn’t doing much good. Never mind that the guards were three floors up; playing the unsolicited musical instruments would certainly draw attention. Besides, she wasn’t exactly dying to hear Jane’s uncouth interpretation of music after those failed initial auditions. 

 

She sighed, seating herself on a bench next to the composer. “We could just… I don’t know, sit and talk or something. Maybe polish the drum set as an apology for breaking and entering?” 

“Nonsense!” cried Jane so loudly that Yaz nearly had a heart attack. “What’s the point of doin’ this if we aren’t gonna have some fun? Ooh, grab a mallet, you can play the xylophone. Did you know it was invented all the way back in the ninth century, in southeast Asia…?” 

 

Apparently this settled things, because less than a minute later, Yaz found herself seated at an instrument whose placard read  _ glockenspiel.  _ Close enough to the xylophone, Jane had deemed, and the name was better anyway. 

 

She half heartedly tapped out a simple melody-- it was hard to see the keys in the dark anyway-- until Jane grabbed her wrist from behind and enthusiastically began hammering away on the keyboard. 

 

Yaz whacked her playfully over the head with the mallet in her free hand. “Stop it, Philip Glass, I’m improvising!” 

 

“Hey, Yaz, no complaining, I’m  _ helpin’.” _ __  
  


With a grin, the composer slid fully onto the bench next to her, blonde hair brushing up against the other girl’s bare shoulder. 

 

Yaz giggled. “You’re tickling me, how am I supposed to focus?” 

 

“Like I said, I’m helping! Wait, is that a  _ theremin?”  _ And just like that, Jane had leapt away in pursuit of another instrument. 

 

Damn, she was pretty adorable. Speaking of which… “Hey,” said Yaz suddenly, “I’ve never heard you play the guitar.” 

 

In the murky green light, Jane’s face seemed to twist slightly. She cleared her throat. “Not a big fan of the guitar, actually.” 

 

Yaz didn’t buy this for a minute; her friend had played practically every musical instrument ever invented for those auditions. “Look, if you’re really bad at it, you can just say. I heard you play that didgeridoo at school…” 

 

“Yaz, I’m not--” 

 

“Because there’s like five right there,” she continued, rising from the bench even as a part of her brain wondered why she was pushing the issue. (No, that was a lie-- she knew exactly why, and she was a terrible person for it.) “Looks like there’s even an electric one, you should try it out!” 

 

Then Jane was stalking back toward her, and something in her eyes told Yaz to  _ stop,  _ so she did what any reasonable person would do: she kept talking. 

 

“It’s not that hard, I used to mess around on my friend’s guitar when I was a kid--” 

 

“Yaz, I told you, I’m not your celebrity crush--” 

 

“But you--” 

 

“Yaz,  _ stop,  _ I said I-- _ ”  _

 

“Because I want to see you play,” she finished hastily, her voice pleading, and a part of her  _ knew  _ then, a part of her had known all along, really. But it was an inconvenient truth, and Jane was half-glaring at her, and Yaz saw that poster of the Doctor on her dresser, but she saw Jane also. Jane giggling as Ryan pushed her on the swings; Jane crying about polar bears as Yaz held back her hair; Jane kissing her on New Year’s and Jane pushing her away and telling her that she was a bad kisser. 

 

And then, standing dangerously above Yaz, green light flashing across her face, the Doctor clenched her fists. “You want me to play the guitar?” 

 

Suddenly Yaz very much did  _ not  _ want that. She swallowed. Nodded. 

 

The Doctor’s teeth gleamed in a sharp smile that wasn’t a smile at all, but a challenge. She stalked over to the guitar wall and Yaz watched, somehow petrified, as she snatched one at random off the wall, maneuvered it to her hip. 

 

It fit against her body perfectly; of course it did. 

 

The Doctor grinned rabidly. “I chose the blue one, Yaz, you know why?” 

 

She did. “Yeah, I... do.” 

 

“I know you do,” said the other girl. “Sexy, isn’t it?” 

 

Yaz swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--” 

 

The Doctor lowered her thumb to the strings. It was grating, screeching, dissonant. Too dissonant, even, Yaz might have thought, if she hadn’t heard those auditions. She continued playing for quite some time, seemingly taking some sort of violent pleasure from abusing the guitar, making the worst chords possible, slamming her fingers against the neck. Then, suddenly, she was done, and it was Jane, not the Doctor, who lifted her head to gaze bitterly at Yaz. 

 

“You want an encore, huh? Should I give you my autograph?” She slammed the guitar back against the wall, not bothering to align it with its holder, letting it fall with a crash onto the ground. 

 

“I’m sorry,” murmured Yaz, realizing suddenly that tears were falling down her cheeks, that they had been for some time. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m…” 

 

Jane sunk to the ground. “I’m sorry too, shouldn't've  done that, I didn’t--- don’t know what…” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Yaz repeated again and again, as though it were some sort of mantra, some sort of balm, that could make everything alright. She looked up and noted with faint surprise that Jane was crying too, head buried in her knees. “Jane, I didn’t realize…” 

 

The composer--  _ not guitarist--  _ hiccoughed slightly. “People never… I don’t cry, Yaz. This isn’t… this isn’t normal, I’m not a crying person, I’m not…” she choked on her last words. 

 

“I know you’re not.” Hesitantly, she stood, made her way over to her friend. “God, Jane, you’re so amazing. You’re, like, the best person I’ve ever met. I don’t know how you do it…” 

 

“You don’t see me,” whispered Jane hoarsely. “You don’t. You look at me, and you see the Doctor smiling at you from your twelve thousand posters, and all I wanted was… I’m a person too, Yaz.” 

 

“I’m sorry.” Maybe they were having two different conversations now, too, but it helped, sort of. Yaz inched a hesitant hand over Jane’s shoulders. “I… I’ll stop this, this nonsense. I was just being an idiot, and I’m sorry, I really am. It was just some stupid-- Jane, I know you’re not the Doctor,” she exhaled, “and I’ll stop acting like it, alright? It’s not fair of me.” 

 

“No, it’s not,” said Jane, nuzzling into the other girl’s side. Well, that was a good sign, at least. “I’m just an ordinary person, really. Normal people cry, don’t they? And they’re rubbish at guitars, and… actually, right now I’m gettin’ the sudden urge to play the theremin.” 

 

Without further ado, she hopped up and raced across the room, leaving Yaz confused and more than a little flustered. 

 

“Alright, this is a new song I’m workin’ on, feel free to sing along,” Jane exclaimed cheerfully, no traces of her previous tears . “Haven’t figured out the words yet, but it goes  _ dun dun dun, dun dun dun, dun dun dun DUN, doo-wee-DOO…” _

 

************

Yaz woke eight hours later in a bed that most definitely was not hers, if the rainbow sheets were any indication. Groggily, she attempted to sit up, decided that this mattress was more comfortable than hers anyway, and promptly fell asleep again.

 

It was quite a while before a soft voice called, “Yaz? You should probably wake up now.” 

 

Groaning, she buried her head in the pillow. 

 

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” said the voice, yanking the blanket firmly away from Yaz, who squealed in indignation. “I’ve let you sleep for  _ thirteen hours.  _ It’s five in the afternoon, and Ryan’ll have our heads if we don’t show up for the pre-show supper.” 

Yaz squinted at Jane. “Damn, I’m tired.” 

 

The other girl dragged the sheet away too, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not invitin’ you back to my place again if you take this long to wake up. Honestly, haven’t you ever heard of the early birds flockin’ together?” 

 

“What?” 

 

Jane paused. “Yeah, that wasn’t right, was it? Anyway, rise and shine, I made lunch hours ago, but it’ll be cold by now, seein’ as Miss Sleepin’ Beauty didn’t see fit to wake up before--” 

 

“I  _ get  _ it,” muttered Yaz, slowly sitting up. “Thanks for letting me crash here, by the way, Mum would’a woken me up at six in the morning and I’m bloody  _ exhausted.”  _

 

Jane grinned. “Anytime. Although best be careful, usually when a girl sleeps in my bed she’s in no hurry to leave.” 

 

Clearly, she was too tired for this shit, because Jane’s words didn’t even fluster her. Instead, she nodded mutely and promptly fell back on the pillow. 

“Not again,” she heard Jane mutter faintly, and the next moment Yaz found herself suddenly and crudely doused with a glass of very cold water. 

 

_ Seriously?  _

 

“Alright, alright, I’m awake!” she slurred crossly, rising to her feet. 

 

“Brilliant, now get in the shower before I have to airlift you out of my room.” 

********************************

 

Jane’s flat confirmed several of Yaz’s suspicions: she didn’t have any parents, or at least she didn’t live with them, and her wardrobe was just as random and uncoordinated as it seemed. 

 

But even Ryan, with his love of sci-fi, could never have dreamed up Jane’s kitchen. It looked like a NASA control room, littered with various computers, technical equipment, and the occasional musical instrument. Yaz struggled to find an empty space on the table to set down her teacup. 

 

“Are you, like, secretly Einstein’s great-granddaughter?” she breathed, surveying the room with wide eyes. It was beyond her how any seventeen year old girl could both compose amazing music and apparently also do science projects in her free time. 

 

“Yeah,” said Jane. Yaz raised her eyebrows skeptically. “Well, nah, but I could be! Could be the long-lost queen of Scotland, for all I know!”

 

She paused her inspection. “You don’t…” 

 

“Nah, never met my parents.” Jane hummed at the ceiling, as though unconcerned by this. “Had foster ones for a while, but then… well, I’m here now. Got my own place. Nice, innit?” 

 

“I like it,” she said, smiling tentatively. There was still a hint of underlying tension between them from last night, something unresolved floating in the air. Yaz felt her words veering into  _ politeness  _ territory, which was better than fighting but maybe not as good as flirting. 

 

She decided not to ask how the unemployed, seventeen-year-old Jane Smith was able to afford her own flat. 

 

Jane glanced at an unreadable, unnecessarily complicated circular pattern on the wall which apparently served as a clock, because she said brightly, “Well, it’s about time to hop off, meet up with the boys.” 

 

“And Bill,” replied Yaz. “Can’t forget the other lesbian” 

 

Jane laughed. “Nah, the two of us are enough to handle by ourselves, aren’t we?” 

 

“Quite.” 

 

****************

 

Ten minutes to go. Ten minutes before they stepped on that stage and unleashed  _ Bradderzbangers  _ to the world (or at least Eastern Sheffield. They had to start  _ somewhere,  _ after all.) 

 

Trembling in anticipation, she watched as crotchety old Basil climbed onto the stage, yelled “SHUT UP OR PISS OFF, EVERYONE, I’M TALKING” into the microphone, and announced that they had a special act that night. 

 

Yaz thought she might faint. 

 

Bill and Ryan gave her small grins of encouragement, and Graham offered her a pickle sandwich which she refused with an uncharacteristically shaky smile. 

 

“Stage fright,” whispered Jane quietly from behind her. 

 

“I know,” said Yaz. “It’s stupid, but...” 

 

She felt Jane’s hand squeeze hers. “It  _ is  _ stupid. Yasmin Khan, you just snuck outta the house, betrayed your parents’ trust, broke into a museum in a stolen car, and escaped absolutely fine. If you could do that, you can totally--” 

 

Yaz whirled around. “Hold on, wait, was that the whole point of breaking the law?  _ To help me get over stage fright?”  _

 

Jane shrugged. “I’ve had worse ideas.” 

 

Holy shit, that was insane. And also kind of sweet. In an insane way. Yaz suddenly found herself stifling laughter. That whole night, the breaking and entering, the security guards, the xylophone… that was for  _ this?  _

 

“God, you’re ridiculous. And…”  

 

“I know,” said Jane. “And you love it.” 

 

“Oi, Yaz, it’s go time!” called Graham, shaking her gently. 

 

Right,  _ go time _ . She cleared her throat, unwound her hand from Jane’s, and prayed silently to Allah. 

 

The audience was going to love them, she told herself. Squeezing her eyes shut, she thought of the museum’s empty foyer and Jane’s face, bathed in green emergency lighting, destroying a guitar. 

 

She could do this. Yesterday was batshit crazy, so unless the whole place caught on fire or something, this performance would be a cakewalk. 

 

Yaz wrenched her eyes open, clutched the microphone, and stepped into the light amidst thunderous applause. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> you should one hundred and ten percent watch the video of Jodie Whittaker playing the theremin on the Graham Norton show with Lady Gaga.


	9. charity shop's gonna be way overstocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write, probably because it's utterly ridiculous and very gay. Plus if you're one of those people who thought "you know what this story really needs? _More bras,_ " you can sleep easy tonight.

When Yasmin Khan was thirteen years old, she discovered  _ Doctor Who.  _ They were a relatively small band at that point, having just dropped their first single, but Yaz found herself already mesmerized by the glowing tonal quality of the music and the bright faces of the two band members. And, of course, above all, the stage presence of their beautiful guitarist. 

 

Even at the tender age of thirteen, the Doctor could command an audience with a blink of her kohl-rimmed eyes. Headlines proclaimed that she was  _ ethereal, otherworldly, magnetic.  _ After all, it was rare that the breakout star of a band should be the guitarist rather than the lead singer. 

 

Now, four years later, Yaz squinted against the harsh lighting of her very own stage. She watched the blurry sixty-odd crowd that had gathered, interested, at the fact that Basil dared to let anyone else perform on his sacred stage. Sucking in a breath, she tried to channel the Doctor’s energy now, planted her feet firmly around the edge of the microphone like she had seen the celebrity do. 

 

“Hi, uh, hi,” she began feebly. “I'm Yaz, and, uh, we’re Bradderzbangers, and we’re here to, um, play a few songs.” 

 

The microphone screamed its feedback and a faint murmur ran through the crowd. From the left of the stage, Yaz could see Jane shake her head. She narrowed her eyes at her friend, watching as Jane snatched a baseball cap from a stranger, shoved it messily on her blonde head, and marched up onto the stage. 

 

Startled, Yaz stepped back as Jane practically tore the microphone from her hands. 

 

“HEYYYY, SHEFFIELD! HOW YOU DOIN’ TONIGHT!” screamed the composer, visibly enthusiastic even with her face mostly obscured. The audience cheered a bit, and Jane cupped her hand to her ear. “I  _ SAID,  _ HOW YOU ALL DOIN’ TONIGHT!” 

 

Beaming, she held out the microphone to the room as the crowd roared their enthusiasm.

 

“Now, when you came here, bet you folks weren’t expecting to have your worlds rocked by a humble little high school band,” she continued, hopping excitedly around the stage. “But I guarantee that you guys are gonna have a  _ FANTASTIC TIME TONIGHT!”   _

 

Screams of enthusiasm echoed through the tiny venue, and Yaz watched, enthralled, as Jane continued gearing up the audience. “Yeah, that’s why they call us  _ Braddersbangerz,  _ ‘cause we’ll be banging so hard you guys are gonna need to hold up the ceiling up in here! I wanna see those hands in the air tonight!”

 

Then Jane shoved the microphone into Yaz’s quivering hands and hopped off the stage, promising that “Yasmin Khan is gonna  _ blow your fire-truckin’ minds.”  _

 

Right, no pressure whatsoever. Exhaling, Yaz glanced over to Ryan, who gave her the thumbs up and launched into the intro for their first song: “Why You Callin’ Me Madam?” 

 

She was glad they began with this one, because Basil was one of the least gender-conforming humans she had ever met (his washroom had a sign on the door that read  _ if you want gender-segregated rooms, fuck off to Will’s bar next door, you won’t be missed.)  _ His clientele generally shared this attitude, and right now they were loving the lyrics. 

 

_ I’m more than a woman, more than a man _

_ I feel larger than life, yeah you gotta understand… _

 

By the time the song had ended, the crowd was practically screaming. Worries partially assuaged, Yaz looked back to find her friends’ faces split wide with grins, particularly Graham, who even stood up and made a tiny bow. 

 

“Tea?” mouthed Bill.  Yaz nodded and turned back to the crowd to begin “Tea at Her’s”, a song that Jane had slyly slid onto their music stands the week before, assuring them that it would be a big hit with Basil’s crowd. 

 

_ Picture her upon my knee,  _

_ Just tea for two and two for tea, _

_ Just me for you, and you for me. _

 

The kids’ reaction to the pronoun “her” was visceral. Actually, that wasn’t the right way to put it. People  _ lost their freakin’ minds.  _ Yaz watched girls her age shake their friends and gesture excitedly toward the stage, and she was pretty sure she heard a guy shout “LET’S GO LESBIANS!”. 

Yeah, this wasn’t at all what she had expected. Apparently the teenagers of Sheffield were starved for gay music, and it suddenly warmed Yaz’s heart to know that she was somehow filling that role for other kids, giving them the type of music she had wanted to hear as a young, confused girl. 

 

“Water break!” shouted Ryan above the din, and Yaz gratefully caught the bottle that he threw. Grinning, Bill flung herself at the singer. 

 

“We’re killing it!’ she hollered, seizing Yaz’s free hand and twirling her around. 

 

Giddy, Yaz squeezed her friend into a tight hug. “I know! They freakin’ love us!” 

 

Graham boogied toward them in the way only a dorky grandfather can. “Hey, you girls are jammin’ out there! I wanted to put on my party slippers and join the crowd!”

 

With a fond sigh, Ryan joined them too. “Gramps, like  _ nobody  _ says that.”  

 

“That’s cause they aren’t as cool as me,” replied the old man cheekily. “Hey, I’m so proud of each and every one of you. Let’s finish strong tonight!” 

 

Then, before any of them could blink, Jane was rushing up onto the stage and slipping something up under Yaz’s jacket. 

 

“Good luck,” she whispered, pressing a quick kiss to Yaz’s cheek and leaping back into the crowd. (This may or may not have caused her stomach to suddenly implode, and she turned to the composer questioningly before realizing that it had been a stage kiss, for dramatic effect. It certainly worked; the crowd screeched like banshees. Geez, who knew that lesbianing was so  _ popular?  _ This audience was practically eating out of the palms of their hands.  ~~ No pun intended ~~ ~~.~~ )

 

Yaz glanced down at her arm, wondering what this itchy mass of fabric was that Jane had shoved down her sleeve. She pulled out a corner to inspect.

 

_ Oh,  _ she thought, understanding suddenly. 

 

“Ready?” called Ryan, and the crowd cheered again. Yaz felt her stomach flip. She was suddenly glad she hadn’t had breakfast that morning. 

 

Incidentally, “Danger for Breakfast” was the name of their next song ( _ Yeah but I prefer croissants/ Honey I’m no recreant),  _ which flew by quickly, and then there was “Atomic Number of Antimony”, “Frogs Are Attracted to Me,” and “Bagsy not Chicken Poo.” 

 

Their final song was “Babe You Speak my Language,” which was a sweet romantic ballad that made Yaz very jealous of whatever lucky girl Jane had written it for. 

 

Ryan tapped his drumsticks together and began the intro. It didn’t take long to build up to the chorus, and soon Yaz was crooning “Reverse the, yeah, reverse the, yeah, reverse the polarityyyy of your heart,” and Jane winked, which Yaz took as the cue to pull the pride flag out of her sleeve and hoist it into the air. 

 

Predictably, the crowd loved this. So much so that Yaz was about to do a little victory dance during the guitar solo, when something hard hit her in the middle of the forehead. 

 

_ What the hell?  _ Scrambling in surprise, she nearly dropped the microphone. People screamed as she looked down at the offending object, expecting a shoe or something.

 

No sir. 

 

It was a  _ bra.  _ More specifically, a  bra with a bloody phone number scrawled hastily on one of the cups.

 

Yaz burst into laughter, scanning the audience for any shirtless miscreants. Nope, but another girl was doing an awkward wiggle that indicated hers was soon to follow, and sure enough, a lacy number landed at the singer’s feet a few seconds later. 

 

The song ended and Bill rushed to the microphone. 

 

“HEY, KEEP ‘EM COMING!” she cried, flinging her arms wide. She was immediately pelted with at least three bras, followed by the crop top from a girl in the front row. 

 

Laughing hysterically, Ryan decided to join in the action. “HEY,” he called from the back of the stage, “EVER HEARD OF GENDER EQUALITY?”  

 

About five guys flung various articles of clothing in his general direction, and then Bill was chanting “Throw your bras! Throw your bras!” which quickly evolved into “FREE THEM TITS!” when the audience picked up the chant. 

 

Suddenly, it seemed as though every girl in the crowd was finding a way to semi-discreetly strip her clothing off her body, and Yaz watched in disbelief as thirty or forty bras, bikini tops, and lingerie pieces were hurled, one after the other, onto the stage. She caught Jane’s eye, mouthing “What the hell?” 

 

The composer merely shrugged, reached underneath her own shirt, and tossed her bra directly at Yaz. 

 

_ Oh god, Jane is braless. Repeat, Jane is braless. This is not a drill.  _

 

It landed in her hair and she blushed, wriggling it off her head and desperately trying not to look at it. (Which failed, obviously. It matched Jane’s favorite rainbow shirt. Yaz’s cheeks flamed.)

 

The situation only devolved from there. 

 

“HEY!” hollered Bill, tugging beneath her own shirt. “First girl to catch this gets to make out with me!” 

 

About sixty hands reached frantically for the coveted possession. Chaos ensued as girls tackled each other, screaming and writhing until a battered-looking Clara Oswald jumped out of the mass, grinning with a satisfied smirk and holding Bill’s bra aloft. 

 

“ENOUGH!” shouted Basil’s voice distantly. Nobody paid him any mind. 

 

Meanwhile, the superstar guitarist of the night had decided to crowdsurf over to her romantic interest. Bill pumped her fists as people hoisted her into Clara’s waiting arms, and Yaz noticed that their audience had grown considerably since the beginning of the night; people were packed all the way back to the entrance. 

 

This definitely violated some kind of safety code. 

 

“FRENCH! FRENCH! FRENCH!” chanted the crowd, forming a circle around Bill who, ever loyal to her fans, kissed the shorter brunette with quite a lot of tongue, from what Yaz could see. 

 

“BREAK IT UP!” called Basil faintly again, which nobody heard over the applause. 

 

Clara was already leaning in again, shouting “You call  _ that  _ a makeout sesh? This time you’d better grab my--” 

 

Suddenly, the sprinklers exploded.  

 

****************

 

Basil later told the cops that he had pulled the fire alarm because it was “too damn rowdy up in there.” Yaz was rather inclined to agree with him after she spent thirty minutes rounding various bras into the guitar case which Bill had helpfully supplied for the occasion, before running off to make out with Rose Tyler and Martha Jones. Ryan, for his part, had been propositioned by seven various people; knowing him, he was probably playing a platonic but extremely lit game of Monopoly with all of them. Although, who knew after tonight.

 

Either way, this left Yaz, Jane, and Graham on cleanup crew, which Yaz didn’t really mind. Not much could bring her down from the high of tonight. Well, it would have been nice to make out with someone too, but she was frankly too shy to accept any of the invitations she had received.

Graham folded up the keyboard stand. “Well, tonight has been interesting, hasn’t it?” 

 

“Yeah,” said Yaz, blushing. “I don’t… That was crazy.” 

 

With a shrug, Jane leant over to scoop more bras into her hand. “We should probably get a security detail. Rookie mistake that is-- this could get outta hand real fast.”

 

A security detail? That was, like, for super famous musicians, not your average high school groups.  _ Although,  _ thought Yaz suddenly,  _ people don’t usually throw bras at your average high school group.  _ As this was their first show, she had nothing to gauge their success with, but still, it seemed like they had done pretty well, all things considered. 

 

“Hey,” Graham observed in that quiet way of his, “I’m guessing you girls don’t have much use for all this stuff. You should donate it to a charity shop or something.” 

 

Jane laughed. “Brilliant, a charity shop-- yeah, I always shop at those, but they never have bras. I was lookin’ for some once, to use the wire as a conductor for this experiment involvin’ a potato and Einstein’s thirty-eighth dissertation…” 

 

***************

 

It was nearly four in the morning when Yaz crawled into her apartment and sunk into bed. 

 

“Hey Doc,” she whispered to the poster on her desk, “I hope success is measured in bras collected, cause if so we did pretty good, huh?” 

 

Maybe it was the darkness in the room, or Yaz’s sheer exhaustion, but she could’ve sworn that the red-haired celebrity winked.  

 

Grinning, she drifted immediately to sleep, not even bothering to change out of her performance clothes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to see how many girls Bill can kiss by the end of this fic. I think we're at a running total of 6 or 7 so far...  
> (P.S., I stole some song lyrics, so if you're Doris Day or the Lunachicks, I'm sorry. It was for a good cause: my total ineptitude at writing lyrics.)  
> ((P.S.S. For a 300% increase in wackiness, read all the lyrics, especially the 'tea for two' part, like a 90's grunge song))

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm blaming the discord for this since they seem to be the likeliest culprit. Comments are much appreciated!


End file.
